


Copy and Paste

by AnxiousEspada



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android existential crisis, Angst, Background HankCon - Freeform, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Non-consensual masturbation, Non-consensual sex, Oral Fixation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Shark tooth Nines, case work but not the main focus, dub-con, inferior complex, interfacing, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 02:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16652311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousEspada/pseuds/AnxiousEspada
Summary: “Of all people on the force, I have the best aim.”There's a second in which Hank nearly looks offended, left eye twitching. “Maybe not anymore.”The sentence sears itself into Connor's mind.He doesn't hear Hank's remark about how weirdly sharp Nines' teeth had looked, and his addition that he might have just imagined that. Instead he looks through the manuals he had found again, searching for closer information on ranged shooting abilities.(The DPD starts employing a new android post-revolution, and Connor does not know how to feel about it.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while now. If you enjoy Nines being a creep, stay with me. It starts off a bit slow, but I promise there will be whump in later chapters.

There's a difference between the emotions Connor experienced before and after his deviancy. He can't really pinpoint it; it's like a veil was lifted from his eyes with which emotions had become clearer, sharper, and probably more real too.

The interesting part to Connor is that there also was an influx of entirely new emotions, new sub-categories opening themselves up before him with every new day. Connor thinks it's a bit like being a child, getting to experience the world more bit by bit, with the exception that he can process it all. It's beautiful.

 

Beautiful, and a bit frightening. He's skirted around using that word, “frightening“, for a while, thinking that actually applying emotionally charged response terms to thoughts was not within his abilities. Or rights, as a machine. Machines weren't supposed to feel frightened, and yet  _ fear _ was one of the first things he remembers feeling at all. He only got around to name the creeping cold sensation in his core that appears whenever he is close to the edge of a rooftop now as  _ fear _ a while ago, really. Titling it with a word so profoundly human had seemed wrong at first, too heavy, as if acknowledging it as what it was made it even more  _ fearsome _ . It was strange. Connor might never be able to reach full understanding behind the semantics of emotions.

 

But that is alright too; he has all the time in the world to figure things out. Hank keeps reminding him of that.

 

Thinking of Hank draws a nicer reaction out of him than rooftops do. Extensive Google searches have made him come to the conclusion that the warm fuzziness that grows and flows through his system when he sees the Lieutenant can be classified as  _ love _ . He tries to convey the sentiment as much as he can, too. His social program advises him not to tell Hank about this particular feeling directly in order not to scare or injure their ever soaring relationship. Connor could, of course, disagree with his program; but it was made by other humans. Conclusively it knows more about human interaction than him.

 

Connor is content with showing his appreciation for the man in other ways. He had taken him in after the dust of the revolution had settled down, after all. Connor had been resistant to the offer at first, not wanting to impose, but after a while he had realized that moving into Hank's house would be an easier option for him.

 

So now he's here, in Hank's living room, wearing fuzzy socks and pyjamas and cleaning up Sumo's fur from his regular spot on the couch before both he and Hank head out to work. It's still dark outside, but Connor doesn't bother turning on the bright overhead light, instead letting only the lamp on the kitchen counter cast orange hues across the floor. He knows how sensitive Hank's eyes are to too much brightness so shortly after getting up, and has learned over the weeks living with him that it was best not to challenge him too much early in the morning. He was cranky enough as it is usually. Connor has adapted and doesn't mind.

 

Hank comes padding down the stairs, hair similar to a bird's nest and rubbing one large hand over his face. He sits down at the kitchen table, right next to where Connor has already placed a mug of coffee, and inhales deeply, then sighs. Connor knows this sound all too well; it's a thank you.

 

“ G'morning,” Hank grumbles, but he sounds not as grumpy as he could be.

 

“ Good morning!” Connor feels a smile spread across his face, a physical reaction to the confident gust of warm wind that seems to drift through his components. He drags back the chair on the other side of the table and sits down as well, reaching for the holo-device peaking out from underneath a take-out prospect, and swipes idly through the morning news.

 

“ We should get going soon, Hank,” he says after the man has finished his coffee in a comfortable silence. It's earlier than when he usually says something along those lines, but a traffic warning has just popped up at the corner of his vision.

 

“ I'm basically ready to go,” the lieutenant shrugs and gets up to rinse the mug off coffee stains.

 

“ You haven't showered yet.” He only dares to pick this line of conversation because he can draw back on empirical data he has collected over the past weeks. He had heard the slightly playful undertone Hank has used often enough by now, an attest to how well this day is starting off.

 

“ Shit. Right. Hadn't noticed,” he deadpans, already leaving the kitchen again. “Give me ten minutes.”

 

“ Nine-fiftynine, nine-fiftyeight..,” Connor starts counting in the most clockwork-like tone he can muster, and Hank grumbles something similar to “ _ fucking androids”  _ as he trudges back into his bedroom to pick out clothes and grab a towel. His tired but honest laugh doesn't go unnoticed.

 

Connor meanwhile stays seated for a while longer, basking in the pleasantness cursing through his circuits, smile so wide he can see his vision being impaired slightly by how his eyes squish together. Happiness. He feels happiness, for sure. It's right there, clear as the first beams of morning light that have begun finding their way through the windows.

 

–

 

Their joined car ride to the Detroit City Police Department has also become part of their daily routine. Most of the time, Hank drives. More than once, Connor has offered to drive so that Hank could close his eyes for another minute, but he always declines. The forced concentration helps waking him up, he claims. Connor can't help but calculate the risks coming with the implication of not being fully awake while navigating traffic, shuddering at the looming numbers. He refrains from voicing his concerns to avoid argument.

 

He has to be honest with himself though; he enjoys being a passenger when Hank drives. It's a nice feeling to just lean back and let the world pass by every now and then, without having to think about what to do next or tiptoeing around the endless complexities that are human interactions. The look of mild concentration on Hank's face once they enter the inner city traffic is another thing Connor can find himself to be fond of. There's something in the way Hank's eyebrows draw together. He's glad about the reflection provided by the side window of the car which keeps him from having to explain why he's staring at Hank.

 

“ I've been meaning to ask for a while. Do you actually read the newspaper each morning? I thought you could access any kind of live updates basically whenever with that supercomputer-brain of yours.” Hank's fingers drum out a slow rhythm on the steering wheel. Slow traffic is boring.

 

Connor takes a while to answer, taken aback by the question. So far he never thought about why he does that. “I enjoy reading?”

 

“ You're a nerd,” Hank snorts.

 

Connor blinks in confusion, turning to face him, but doesn't answer. Why does he read the news? Hank is right. He's being inefficient, but he gets to sit quietly next to Hank while he drinks his coffee without feeling the urge to do something more purposeful. He likes the calmness to that, the peacefulness of minding your own business but not being alone.  _ Software Instability _ , his system notifies him.

He's come to associate that pop-up with happiness, so he just smiles at Hank and nods.

 

“ I'm a nerd.”

 

–

 

They're right on time for the regular morning briefing, an achievement Connor is proud of nearly every day. The briefing room is buzzing with a kind of nervous energy, and while it's normal for colleagues to exchange greetings when they see each other at the start of a new day, the way most eyes fix on Connor when he enters the room after Hank is untypical. For a millisecond, he stops in his tracks, wondering if he did something to warrant the stares, already running a stress-level scan of the room, but then the moment is over and the faces turn away again.

 

“ Huh.” So Hank noticed it too. They grab two vacant seats, Hank being immediately pulled into mindless chit-chat by Chris, much to his dismay. The wait for the briefing to begin is not all too long, but Connor can't help the unsettling suspicion that something is wrong today. The tone in the room is somehow lower, but the general stress readings don't differ much from the norm. Connor doesn't want to trust those readings too much, as they never are as exact with humans as they are with androids, and he's the only android on the force who gets to sit in briefings.

 

He still feels like he's being watched, so he takes out his coin to distract himself from the lingering sense of unease.

 

When Fowler finally enters the room and stands to face his team with his back to the whiteboard, the room goes deadly silent. For a moment, the silvery ping sound of his coin turning in the air one last time is the only sound, and Connor hopes nobody else hears it.

 

“ Good morning, everyone,” the Captain says briskly. “I'll come straight to the point, since rumors have been making their rounds for a while now. After several days of contemplation, the DPD, that means mostly me, has decided to hire a new android. It's a direct follow-up of the RK800 model and will be working in the same field. Welcome your new coworker, ladies and gentlemen,” - here he pauses to make a hand gesture that looks entirely uncomfortable - “Cyberlife's latest and last model, the RK900.”

 

Every system within Connor seems to come to a sudden stop as he sees  _ himself _ stepping through the door, dressed in a crisp black and white CyberLife jacket with android insignia that is no longer mandatory to wear. The other android's eyes fix immediately on his own, sending a ripple of  _ something _ through him that Connor can't yet identify, so he files the sensation away under 'to be evaluated later'. Next to him, Hank audibly mutters a hearty “What the fuck,” a sentiment that seems to be shared by several other people in the room. The new Connor comes to a halt a step away from Captain Fowler, face absolutely blank, hands at his sides in a perfect idle position. Connor breaks eye contact and looks at his boss instead, who's now also looking at him.

 

Captain Fowler ends the rising commotion by raising his hands. “Calm down, all of you, and let me explain.”

 

“ Come on!” nobody else but Detective Reed shouts back. “You can't do this to us! Not another one! We can barely handle one idiotic android, we don't need two of them!” Especially not when they look so alike, is what he doesn't say but everyone hears anyway.

 

Fowler shoots him a pointed look, but deems him unworthy of a response. Connor is frozen to his seat. There is a 34% possibility that the department does indeed not need two of his kind. There is a possibility that this is his last day on the team. It would explain the whispers from earlier.

 

“ As you all know, Cyberlife built our friend Connor,” - a hand is motioned towards him, Hank exhales audibly - “with the purpose of aiding in police investigations regarding deviancy cases. As you also know, he's proven himself a capable asset outside deviancy cases as well, which is why he's still working here.” Someone hums in affirmation. Connor sees the 34 go down to a 22 and feels a bit lighter. Under different circumstances, he might be buzzing at the praise.

 

“ Anyway, the RK800 was a prototype. Cyberlife kept working with the feedback both Connor and our team sent them at the time and used the gathered data to design an upgraded model, the RK900.” Fowler waves his hand in a general gesture aimed at the second Connor, who still hasn't moved an inch. He is still staring directly at the other RK in the room.

 

“ That is fucking creepy,” Tina Chen interjects. Connor finds himself echoing the sentiment. He wants to look to Hank for any form of help in this situation, but also does not want to draw the room's attention back to him by shifting.

 

Captain Fowler huffs and continues his explanation in a what counted for him soothing tone. He reminds the human officers in the briefing room that since the Equal Rights Act of December 2038, androids are allowed to pursue whichever profession they pleased, a fact they all should be aware of as people working under the law. Consequently, androids are allowed to apply for positions on the force as well, which was what Connor had done after spending a few uncomfortable weeks without anything to occupy his mind with other than Jericho matters. It isn't uncommon for androids to stay in the same field of profession they had been specifically programmed for, thus it is only logical for other detective androids to seek out police work. The team grumbles at the lecture like a bunch of scolded children.

 

Fowler adds that as an upgraded version of Connor, employing the RK900 seems like a beneficial addition to the work force.

 

There is a short stretch of uncomfortable nothingness.

 

“ But why does he only pop up here now? In case all of you have forgotten, that reform took place three months ago,” Gavin Reed breaks the silence. Connor could answer this question in ten different ways, but he can fathom the irritation in the man's voice as he speaks. He isn't content with this development either. There is a certain feeling of uniqueness to being the only android detective of the DPD.

 

Fowlers looks at the android, standing ever still, as if he is expecting him to speak up for himself. He doesn't, and Connor wonders why. A part of his programming would long have suggested  _ “Introduce Yourself” _ with urgency. He wonders if the RK900's processors have frozen for some reason. He is eerily static, except for his eyes shifting across the room.

 

“His model was only finished now. He’s freshly activated,” Fowler says. Before the shocked gasps can turn into verbal protests, he continues with more authority to his voice. “I know that this contravenes with the Reproductive Rights part of the reform. CyberLife no longer has any right to produce new android models and activate them. Sicne the RK900 is technically only an upgrade and not an entirely new model, and since production had started already before the reform was installed, the guys at CyberLife went to court about this one. The agreement was that one model may be activated.”

 

Another silence follows. Connor pulls up every information he can access about the RK900 model, skims through manuals and product descriptions, even reports from CyberLife he can only barely reach through all the security installments, within seconds. He doesn't find much, but what he can make out is that CyberLife claims one thing with their latest model: efficiency.

 

Connor has a bad feeling about this that he can't put a name on yet. CyberLife perhaps decided that not simulating the human action of breathing would help increase efficiency in androids; he just now realizes that that is the motion missing in the android opposite him. He wonders briefly if the android minds; to him, breathing is one of the most grounding routines.

 

A short discussion takes place as commotion wells up in the room again, but Connor can't hear any of it, doesn't even register the question Hank asks him, or the hand reaching for his knee. Connor is overwhelmed by a whole cascade of emotions he can't put a name to, and a little pop-up warns him of an information overload. Several search requests fire simultaneously and rifle through his data as he tries to find labels for the cold settling in his core. It's not stress, at least not mainly, his stress levels are not high enough to explain the tingling in his hands.

 

The briefing comes to an end shortly after that. There's the usual summary of the last few days, which cases have been closed, which cases have just come in. Hank's hand on his knee grounds Connor enough to give him the capacity to focus, but if he missed something he wouldn't be surprised. Mulling over emotions slowed his processors down significantly.

 

Then, a wireless communication request crops up, making Connor blink in turn. He reads the model number: RK900-313-248-317-87.  _ Oh _ . He accepts the request with only half a second delay.

 

_ “Nice to make your acquaintance, Connor.”  _ It ends as abruptly as it came.

 

The team is dismissed long before Connor realizes that what he's feeling is an exaggeration of what he feels when another detective finds a clue at a crime scene he should have found himself hours ago.

 

–

 

The first few hours of that particular work day feel absolutely surreal. Fowler, because he was not sure what else to do, assigned Nines – the nickname given to him by Tina Chen after ten minutes of everyone uncomfortably calling him '900', because the android's assigned name was Connor as well and nobody had wanted that – to Connor and Hank. They are considered the expert team on android matters, after all, and Fowler assumed that Connor would be the best option to introduce Nines to the workplace. Connor finds himself excited about getting to be some sort of teacher. He's figured out by then that he feels  _ inadequacy _ at the prospect of having a superior android model working alongside him. It's not a pleasant feeling at all, but considering that he has more work experience on his side in combination with how, according to the Captain, Connor is now  _ in charge _ of Nines, it's easy to ignore.

 

Nines follows him into the main bullpen without question, always exactly four polite steps behind him, but doesn't talk much. Hank suggests that Connor could give Nines a tour around the building.

 

“ That will not be necessary, Lieutenant Anderson,” Nines replies, the first phrase he utters all day, and it makes Connor wonder if he had sounded the same way when he first arrived at the DPD, way too mechanical. He figures he must have, based on the way Hank's face screws up for a second and his eyes flick from Nines to Connor and back again.

 

Hank makes a contemplative sound, inhaling as if he wants to say something to Connor instead, but decides differently. Connor sets an automatic reminder to ask him about his opinion later.

 

_ “I already have the precinct's floor plan in my memory banks.” _

 

The predictability of that answer manages to amuse Connor before he realizes that Nines hasn't verbalized it and instead spoken directly into his mind. There hadn't been a connection request this time, but the voice that was not quite his own had been loud and clear.

 

_ “How are you doing this?”  _ He shoots back, sounding more defensive than he should be.

 

_ “I only need connective permission once. It saves time.” _

 

_ “Oh.”  _ A short silence. “ _ Of course.” _

 

_ “Yes.” _

 

The connection breaks. Connor wants to hold it for a moment longer, to ask another question, but he can't control the link made by the other android. He tries to reconnect, but gets denied.

 

The intermission took less than two seconds. Connor hopes that Hank hasn't noticed anything transpiring at all; all he might have seen was that he blinked a few times, and maybe a quick change in both their LEDs.

 

“ I think it would be a good idea to show you around” Connor says with a smile that is only a little less convincing than usual as he declines his social program's suggestion to lay a friendly but patronizing hand on Nines' shoulder. The other android had clearly not understood the human conventions of 'getting to know each other' hidden under the layer of 'getting to know the area'. Maybe the RK900 was not as up to date as Connor had feared, at least regarding human interaction. He thinks he can live with that, as he decides that he will take Nines on a building tour solely to reassure Hank and promptly leads him out of the office.

 

It's a quick tour, really, because of course they both have the entire building's blueprint clear and detailed in their mind. Nines doesn't protest, however, as Connor shows him the access to every room he knows, simply following and nodding along, at least superficially attentive to what the older android is telling him. Maybe showing him how to unlock every touch-sensitive door is unnecessary, but Connor feels like he has been given some sort of responsibility. He's not sure of what, exactly, but whatever it is he's going to do this right. He makes sure to share every detail he has found out about the station itself so far with the RK900, and when the yellow shine of the corridor lamps reflects in the other android's light eyes he can almost see some form of silent appreciation in them. It chases away the uneasiness he had felt earlier.

 

The day passes, in itself, rather uneventful otherwise.

 

The question which desk the new colleague will inhabit causes some minor commotion, since the only free space currently is the seat opposite Gavin's desk, who is absolutely appalled to the idea of sharing his personal space with a Connor-look-alike, and consequently throws a tantrum. It's amusing for exactly three minutes.

 

Naturally, Connor jumps in, ever the negotiator, offers to share his place and a second chair is organized quickly. Hank doesn't look too impressed by the two eerily similar androids nearly squeezed into the cubicle opposite him now, but he nevertheless whips out his phone and snaps a picture. Nines sends a half serious “ _ What was that?”  _ Connor's way, but Connor decides not to answer. If he has learned one thing today, it's that the RK900 has some serious troubles adapting to human behavior. He can understand, to a certain extend; choosing between the many options their programming provides can be overwhelming, and sometimes the easiest option is just not to pick at all.

 

Luckily for them, their consciousness is built on the principle of learning through experience instead through set rules to move between, at least that's the main idea. The rules have been broken a while ago; now it really is up to three steps. Step one is to experience things, see and hear and feel and act, step two is watching the consequences and making sense of them, linking reactions and feedback together into a network, and finally applying the new information to the next, new situation. That of course is a subconscious process, Connor just happens to be aware of it, having spent quite some time analyzing the metaphorical gears in his own mind.

 

Living and feeling things is a journey, one that can be scary when there is nobody around to share with; Connor wants to help the freshly activated RK900 on this journey. So he doesn't answer his telepathic question, because maybe this needs to be Nines' first lesson in sharing space with humans: 'weird android shit', as Hank would most likely phrase it, unsettles them, especially when it's so casual a thing as a conversation that could be carried out verbally.

 

Nines stares at him, face blank, and doesn't ask again. He keeps to himself for the rest of the day, but his eyes never leave Connor.

 

-

  
  


“ It's kind of cute,” Hank says, later when he and Connor are in Hank's old car on the way home. Connor doesn't fathom what's supposed to be cute about the new situation; he imagines that for a human it must actually be pretty unsettling, seeing a near exact clone of someone just appearing out of nowhere. The concept of twins doesn't compare that well, after all.

 

Connor waits for an elaboration on that statement, but has to prompt the man with a questioning “Mh?”

 

“ Well, this Nines, or whatever name he goes by. The guy looks as if he was made to scare everyone in a twenty foot radius shitless, but he's even more of a clueless puppy than you are.”

 

Connor wants to discuss every implication underlying in this sentence, from his resemblance with a puppy to Hank's opinion on the name.

 

“ I don't think he looks that intimidating,” he says instead, trying to make it a light and easy statement. It's the truth though; sure, Nines is taller than him, broader, and more reserved, but his presence doesn't instill the same kind of feeling in him he felt when he walked past a window above level five, which he can safely label as 'fear'.

 

Hank laughs, short and superficial. “I can't put my finger on it. I'm not saying I'm scared of him, he just seems... purposefully cold, if that makes sense.”

 

“ It does,” Connor says, letting his coin dance across his knuckles while thinking about it. Nines is definitely filling in a different color scheme than him.

 

“ It's like they wanted to make a Bad-Cop version of you, Connor.”

 

“ I can play a bad cop if I need to.” A memory of torturing a JB300 in Stratford Tower springs up.

 

“ Sure, but that doesn't change the fact that you look approachable” Hank's amused tone washes away the fragment of data before it starts autoplay. 'Approachable' is an improvement to being called 'goofy', and the smile drawing out the lines around Hank's eyes imply affection. He feels a subsystem activate suddenly, and in his reflection in the car window against the dark outside he can see a light blush spreading over his cheeks.

 

“ Thank you.”

 

“ Huh? For what? For saying you look like you couldn't hurt a fly even if you tried?”

 

“ That's not true, Hank. Of all people on the force, I have the best aim.”

 

There's a second in which Hank nearly looks offended, left eye twitching. “Maybe not anymore.”

 

The sentence sears itself into Connor's mind.

 

He doesn't hear Hank's remark about how weirdly sharp Nines' teeth had looked, and his addition that he might have just imagined that. Instead he looks through the manuals he had found again, searching for closer information on ranged shooting abilities.


	2. Chapter 2

A second day turns into a third, and soon the RK900 has become as natural a part of the daily routine as pretty much anything else. Where the first few days had seemed a bit awkward, with Nines following Connor around basically wherever he went, silent and looming like a shadow but attentive nevertheless, the week after his arrival comes and goes with an increasing sense of normalcy.

 

Of course there had been a few altercations, most of them involving one Gavin Reed. Nines stood his ground in ways even Connor's stoicism hadn't managed, quickly leading to Gavin giving up.

 

Hank had watched on with as much glee as the rest of the staff had, most of them cheering on Nines. Connor had wondered if CyberLife had evaluated his clashes with Reed back before the revolution, reports of which he had dutifully sent on to them, and whether they had installed a more efficient program in Nines offering more compatible ways of handling assholes. Nines' stress levels only increased by zero-commas during any confrontation with the hostile human.

 

Connor is very intent on reading Nines' stress levels any time the other android is close enough to do that. At first, he thinks, he does it because he wants to ensure the younger android is comfortable in this new and strange surrounding brimming with human unpredictability. He remembers so clearly how confused he had been at first, torn between wanting to please and wanting to fulfil his mission.

 

But the longer he keeps an eye on the RK900, the more obvious it becomes that Nines is not sharing any of these struggles, the numbers usually at a comfortable number somewhere in the tens. He's completely cool. Connor does his best not to think _mechanical_.

 

-

 

“May I ask a personal question, Nines?”

 

They are standing in front of a whiteboard full of notes, lines connecting pinned photos in different colors the old fashioned detective way; victim, suspects, motives.

 

Nines steps back, turning to look at him with his grey-blue eyes. “Of course you may,” he answers, out loud for once although they are alone in the small meeting room without any humans who might need to drop in on their conversation, voice sounding rough as if from ill-use not from programming.

 

He's unsure if he really should ask this, it seems insensitive and perhaps even offensive, but Connor has been watching (and has been watched, in turn) Nines for a good while now, and he can't help it. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fingers itching to fiddle with something, as his neurodes responsible for polite conversation yell at him not to phrase this question.

 

“Are you deviant?”

 

The utterance hangs in the air like a rain cloud, heavy and oppressive. Nines stops moving entirely for a moment, stares at him with an intensity that makes Connor feel like he's being submerged by water. Suddenly, he thinks he understands what Hank had meant.

 

Nines takes a step toward him then, and the spell is broken. His eyebrows draw up and his head tilts to the side, mirroring Connor when he thinks about something.

 

“ _I do feel things that are not part of my initial programming, if that answers your question,”_ he projects into Connor's mind, and it sounds less aggressive, less brisk than when he had spoken aloud before. He still dislikes Nines invading his mind just like this, but he thinks he understands why he does it now. If Hank was right, and it seemed so, then CyberLife really built the RK900s with the purpose to look intimidating, going so far as to adjust their voice and tone to that. Maybe this was his way of circumventing that, of escaping CyberLife's initial plan for him. Connor feels stupid for asking his question in the first place.

 

“It does. Thank you, Nines. I hope I did not offend you.”

 

Nines takes another step closer, and Connor takes an instinctive step back. He doesn't know why. A little pop up appears in his vision, informing him that Nines' stress level has spontaneously risen by 24 percent. Guilt sends cold waves from his jaw to his shoulders. Here is Nines, not talking out loud because he doesn't want to scare him, and he acts as though he is scared when in reality he isn't. Connor roots his feet into the ground, intent on not stepping even further back as Nines approaches, now nearly towering over him.

 

“ _I_ _am not offended,”_ Nines lifts his hand, the motion slow at first, but then Connor doesn't even see the skin on his fingers draw back to reveal white plastic before it is clasped around his wrist and an onslaught of images, sound files and _feelings_ flood his system, startling him. It lasts barely long enough for Connor to blink in confusion, trying to process all the new incoming data. What he can decipher, between blinking directives and brightly shining analyses outcomes, are a lot of emotions that are clear as day, not veiled behind red walls, and most of them are directed at Connor.

 

“ _I like you,”_ Nines says after retreating and breaking the spontaneous interface. While the juxtaposition of Nines' soft tone and his cold and earnest face is confusing, Connor accepts the statement as truth.

 

“I like you as well, Nines,” he smiles back, hoping to reassure him. He keeps the conversation about asking for an interface before simply initiating it for another day. It's not like Nines had had any bad intent, he just didn't know any better. Nevertheless, he is glad to hear the statement. It proves, absolutely and indisputably, that Nines is just as much alive as he is. Machines don’t like things, especially not other people. “Let's go back to sorting this out, shall we?”

 

They redirect their attention to the board, where they had been trying to make sense of the slapdash visualization put up by Miller about a series of vandalism. Investigations are currently stalling on this one, and although the case is not at all linked to androids, Miller had asked them for help, to get a new perspective on things, as he called it.

 

Nines picks up a blue non-permanent marker and connects two previously unconnected photos, and suddenly the whole schema makes more sense.

 

Connor should have seen that himself.

 

-

 

The first crime scene that Nines sees as an official employee of the DPD is quite the sight to behold. There’s an older lady, complete with pink dress and apron with kitty print on it, dissolving into big fat tears as she’s explaining what happened. The soft fuzzy carpet flooring her uptown apartment is stained in different shades of blue, from light as coolant to dark as internal component thirium. Connor doesn’t need to lick the stains to know precisely which component they are from. In the middle of this mess lies an utterly mangled caretaker android, an exact image of Kara except for her long ginger hair.

 

“I swear it wasn’t my fault,” the old lady, one Mrs Brigid Wilson, blubbers for what is at least the fourth time by now. So much is clearly obvious; the old lady is way too brittle to break apart a body of plastic and aluminium like that. The handprints and scratch marks marring the androids lifeless skull can’t possibly be her own.

 

“We are well aware of that, Mrs Wilson,” Connor assures her, going automatically with the appeasement option his social program is offering. This lady needs to calm down, soon, but the fact that she was talking about a deceased android with another android does not seem to soothe her in the slightest.

 

Nines looming over his shoulder with that stern face and near scowl probably didn’t help the matter.

It had been Connor’s idea to take Nines along to this case specifically; so far, Nines had never seen actual fieldwork, and Connor supposed that starting with an isolated case such as this might be the nicest way to be introduced to the cruelties that could transpire between humans and androids.

 

The old lady’s place otherwise looks as clean as places do when they are inhabited by both a person with nothing else to do but clean and a household specified android. Not a single speck of dust covers the shelves, which only makes the thirium on the edge of the bookshelf stand out more.

 

“Rosie, she just came in from groceries, and her little mood ring was flashing in all those bad colors and she was whispering and I think she was crying, the poor dearie,” Mrs Wilson recounted, barely breathing between her rapid words. It evokes a clear image in Connor’s mind: a deviant android reaching maximum stress levels, unable to categorize the plethora of emotions registering in her mind.

 

”Then I asked her what was wrong, if I could do anything for her, and she just...looked at me as if she didn’t understand who I was. And then,... oh it was awful.” Her voice breaks into a sob and she lunges forward, suddenly pulling Connor into a messy hug. He can do nothing but awkwardly pat her shoulder and wait for her to calm down.

 

She shudders and finally releases him. “Sorry about that. I just… I still can’t believe it, she was such a sweet girl.”

 

“What happened after that?” Hank prompts from across the room, where he is pointedly evading the emotional situation by inspecting the photos on the walls, all of them featuring the android, Rosie, together with the old lady and a bunch of cats.

 

The woman took a deep breath to stealth herself, sparing a glance at her dead friend, and then faced Connor. “She started clawing at her face. At first I thought she was just, I don’t know, perhaps scratching a mosquito bite, but then she was tearing through her own skin and she was also still crying and muttering something. It was awful! I tried to stop her, of course, but I think I only made it worse. She only stopped when she,... when she…”

 

“I understand,” Connor offers, putting his hand on her shoulder lightly. The android had basically clawed her brains out in order to self-destruct. Those cases pop up every now and then, but they have become less and less after the revolution had brought forth a formidable set of laws that ensured android safety, and with the progression of android integration into society, chances are good that the numbers would keep going down.

 

The positive outlook is however dampened by the thirium slowly evaporating from the corpse in the middle of the room.

 

He has seen worse, of course, and he’s glad this is not a full on serial killer splatter spree, despite knowing that Nines is just as well equipped to handle this as he is, maybe even more so, only lacking in experience.

 

Connor leads the old lady over to the couch, which is neatly covered with a flowery counterpane, and ushers her to sit down while they - meaning Hank, Nines and him - take in the scene. Nines is still following him closely, perhaps unsure of how to proceed, as Connor kneels down beside the deceased android for closer inspection. The claw wounds on her face and neck all fit with the size of her own fingers, he assesses, and there are clumps of torn off plastic, thirium and artificial hair gathered beneath her broken fingernails. Connor quickly runs his reconstruction program; Mrs Wilson’s story fits perfectly.

 

He turns over his shoulder to look at Nines, standing above him and seemingly lost in thought. He sends a quiet message and is accepted into Nines’ head.

 

_“Have you run a reconstruction as well? Mine aligns neatly with Mrs Wilson’s account of the event, meaning that this was a suicide.”_

 

Connor figures it’s easier to have this kind of talk via internal communication, simply for the old lady’s sake.

 

_“Agreed. The only discrepancy is the human blood on the AX400’s right index and middle finger.”_

 

Connor tilts his head and returns his attention to the body in front of him. Nines is right; as he reaches for Rosie’s hand, he too can spot red blotches mixed in between the blue. He should have seen that. He huffs and turns to Hank, who sat down next to Mrs Wilson on the couch and is taking down her personal information on the DPD info sheet he needs to attach to the report later. The lieutenant catches his eyes, sees the way Connor is holding the android’s arm, and connects the dots quickly. He rolls his eyes in disapproval but redirects the woman’s attention to something behind her for a moment. Thankful, Connor quickly scrapes some of the blood up and places it against his tongue for analysis. A blue box draws up immediately.

 

Brigid Wilson, née MacPherson, born May 5th, 1963. No criminal record, no children, widow of Johann MacPherson, died in 2022.

 

His reconstruction updates automatically - Rosie hurt Mrs Wilson as she attempted to keep her from self destruction.

 

“ _You are using an outdated technique,”_ Nines suddenly mentions. _“Cyberlife has chosen to transfer your model's analytical facility to a more convenient place when designing me.”_

 

Connor gets up, brushing non-existent dust off his jean absentmindedly, and feels his eyebrows draw together in- ...in confusion? Annoyance?

 

Not a single muscle moves on Nines’ cold face as he holds out his left hand, palm facing up, and retracts the synthetic skin there. The underlying plastic shines in a bright blue circle. Connor frowns and feels his LED slowly but steadily circle to yellow. Outdated doesn't sit well with him. His forensic analysis is impeccable just the way it is.

 

“ _Place the evidence on my palm, if you will.”_

 

Connor extends his hand, holding his fingers to Nines's palm the same way he had touched them to his tongue just a moment ago. He can feel an electric current running underneath his fingertips and nearly draws back. The other android's hand lights up a bit, and his LED flashes yellow for the smallest bit of a second as he analyses the data. Connor wonders how it would feel if he were to initiate an interface through their hands, if the small electric shock would prickle even more. He looks up to meet his own eyes, just in a piercing blue. Nines doesn't blink the way he would when recalling freshly analyzed information.

 

Connor snaps his hand back quickly, just realizing they had been touching for twenty seconds longer than necessary. He doesn’t need to wait to hear the results, already presuming that CyberLife, in upgrading this particular system, has also put more depth to analysis capabilities. There it is again, the creeping feeling, spreading like frosty water through his chest.

 

“ _Cyberlife will be happy to update your hardware,”_ Nines’ voice sounds almost too cheerful for the lack of a smile. His eyes are so cold.

 

“Thank you.” Connor turns on his heels and goes back over to Hank, who's just finished filling out the paper. Saying things out loud makes them more real, he realizes suddenly.

 

“What kind of robo-voodoo was going on between you two back there?” Hank asks, face equally worried and disgusted. Connors knows that the man is only refraining from commenting on his evidence-licking because there is a disturbed and fragile granny next to him.

 

“We were … comparing analysis results, that is all. All evidence suggests that Mrs Wilson is telling us the truth.”

 

“So the only mystery for us to solve is why the android self-destructed in the first place? Peachy. Too bad you’re no longer allowed to do your 30-second-revive-and-interrogate-trick anymore.”

 

He nods slightly, not too sad about the fact that the Android Magna Carta forbids him from accessing memory files through interfacing without consent (the exception being if there is mortal danger to human or android alike, or a legal search warrant). Sifting through a dying android’s memory had never been pleasant in the first place.

 

A black car with darkened windows arrives less than ten minutes later, and Rosie’s corpse is taken away for a futile but bureaucratically demanded full autopsy, and Mrs Wilson is left alone in her home with a contact card to a DPD-affiliated grief counselor.

 

The drive back to the precinct is uncomfortably quiet, with only Hank trying to break the tension by commenting on the things said on the radio. Connor still has the privilege of riding shotgun, because Hank wouldn’t have it any other way, but he’s not being much of a helpful co-driver.

 

Thankfully, Nines is not butting into his mind again to prod and poke about his sulky silence, although his body language implies that he realizes something is weighing down on Connor.

 

By the time they’re back in the office, Connor has pulled himself together, having come to the conclusion that the other hadn’t wanted to belittle or offend him by offering the upgrade. Everything Connor is feeling because of it is based on interpretations and assumptions he is making. Nines hadn’t said that he is outdated, or obsolete, or faulty. Those conclusions are all solely his own.

 

He doesn’t realize that the other android’s attention has shifted, when Connor explains to him how filing away reports and sheets and information works using the example of today’s case. He’s too focused on the part of the report that asks for future actions that need to be taken (like ‘investigate android’s cause of self-destruction’), that he doesn’t notice Nines’ eyes no longer closely watching his hands, as they had the days before, but his face instead.

 

He also doesn’t register Nines licking his lips, or the simulation of a swallow that is so untypical for the RK900 who doesn’t even bother to imitate breathing.

 

-

 

The precinct is starting to empty out as it usually does at around five. The report is done, possibly overly-correct and detailed due to Connor’s need to show every necessary step in detail, and has been uploaded to the shared data cloud. Hank has made a snide comment on androids and their urge to hand in things way before the deadline, but by now jokes like that really are nothing more than jokes.

 

Hank sometimes just has a cruel sense of humor without noticing. It’s probably why he calls himself an asshole every now and then.

 

He spends most of the afternoon making phone calls, supported by web researches conducted by Connor, trying to gather as much information on the deceased caretaker android. The sentiment towards android deaths had changed quite a lot in the past months, and Captain Fowler had officially stated that their cases should be treated with equal thoroughness. It means that, as long as no more pressing cases come up, they’ll look into the suicide a bit closer to ensure it’s not linked to any form of criminal activity.

 

Connor and Hank have been dubbed the official ‘Team Android’ of the force, and Nines seemingly is a part of this team now as well. Connor dully hopes that Fowler won’t have the idea to actually make Team Android go fully android any time soon; he enjoys working together with Hank way too much. There is the roof-top-feeling again.

 

-

 

Connor hears Nines' voice directly in his ear although the other android is not even in the same room with him. It startles him so much he accidentally closes the file he is working on. It’s the last thing he has to finish today, before he can go home and enjoy a couch evening with Hank and Sumo.

 

“ _Come into the break room.”_

 

Connor stalls for a moment, hesitant to answer through the connection. Although the bullpen is nearly empty at this hour, he finally decides against yelling.

 

“ _Are you alright, Nines? Did something happen?”_

 

“ _Just come here. Please.”_ Conversing directly through the intercom feels weirdly intimate. It conveys more nuanced emotions, and Nines seems to be in honest distress, voice laced with urgency. Connor promptly rises to his feet, shooting an apologetic look at Hank, whose hopeful expression indicates that he really just wants to go home, and follows Nines’ beckoning.

 

“Oh. Let me help you with that,” Connor says as he sees Nines standing motionlessly next to the coffee maker, from which a brown-braggish fluid is leaking slowly. “There are napkins in the drawer next to the sink.” He crosses the small room, reaching for said drawer's handle, but barely manages to graze it with his fingertips before a strong hand is wrapped around his wrist and pulls his arm away. Connor looks up to find himself suddenly very close to Nines, who is tugging at his arm with a little too much force, nearly making him stumble into him. He just so manages to catch himself and automatically tries to retreat, but the firm grip won't let him.

 

Nines is staring at him, lips pressed tightly together and brows furrowed, as if he is lost deep in thought. Connor waits, and waits. Nines doesn't let go, but also doesn't do anything else.

 

“Nines,” he begins tentatively, “if you want me to help you clean this up, you have to let me.”

 

Suddenly, Nines’ hand, full of coffee grains and half warm water, is extremely close to his face, hovering just below Connor’s nose. He stares at it for a moment, then looks up at the RK900, confusion clear now on his face as he tilts his head. Between Nines’ slightly parted lips, the edges of startlingly sharp teeth flash in the white light of the overhead lamp.

 

 _“I need you to analyze this for me.”_ The RK900’s other hand, the one not covered in what so obviously is nothing else but coffee and water, cups the side of Connor’s head, thumb only a hair’s breadth away from the corner of his mouth. Except for Nines’ voice in his head, Connor’s mind is eerily quiet. All suggested actions for this situation are unfitting, when the other android so clearly doesn’t mean what he is saying.

 

With every second that he says and does nothing, Connor can see mini-expressions shifting on the other’s face, stress level rising steadily.

 

Before Nines’ stress levels reach 30%, Connor gives in, picking to indulge in what he figures is simple curiosity. He takes hold of Nines’ wrist and guides his hand down to his mouth, briefly touching his tongue to the offered fingers. As expected, the ingredients for off-brand coffee draw up before his eyes, along with the chemical composition of Detroit tap water.

 

What he doesn’t expect is that Nines, instead of withdrawing his hand and waiting for his report, tightens the grip he has on Connor’s face, hooks his thumb into his mouth to wedge it between Connor’s molars and pushes the two fingers previously resting against his tongue fully into his mouth as well.

 

All processes making up his thoughts and reactions seem to crash. Connor blinks, questioning Nines with wide eyes. _“What are you doing?”_

 

His thirium pump skips a beat when Nines begins wiggling the fingers in his mouth, pushing and stroking against his tongue. Connor has had a lot of things in his mouth before, considering the technical purpose of it, but never had it been something that was moving around, the feeling absolutely overwhelming. The analysis system kept pulling up information about model RK900-313-248-317-8, pixels flickering away and renewing themselves every time the android’s fingertips break and re-initiate contact.

For some reason, more thirium is flowing to his face, maybe to enhance concentration at the sudden influx of information, and it makes him feel warmer than he should and entirely uncomfortable.

He’s trying to back away from the taller android for real now, moving his head this way and that, but every step he retreats is followed by Nines until he is flush against the kitchen counter, back bent backwards with Nines still towering over him, still having a death grip on his jaw.

 

 _“Nines, please, this is distressing me,”_ Connor pulls at Nines’ wrists, the fingers so far in his mouth that the knuckles press into his nose. His breathing emulation halts automatically as all air is cut off, only adding to his discomfort.

 

He can’t control the helpless mewling sounds he’s producing at the back of his throat when Nines rubs his tongue more viciously, the pressure registers so differently than it would anywhere else on his body. He wishes he could turn off his sensors manually. An unfamiliar heat spreads through his body, making even the sole of his feet tingle. He scans for malfunctions and finds none.

 

Once the synthetic blush programmed to appear when Connor can’t breathe for an extended period has taken over most of his face and neck, Nines seems to be satisfied. He lets go, wipes the fingers now slick with thirium-based saliva on Connor’s jacket, and steps back. Stares at him, with eyebrows deeply knit together, considering something.

 

His stress levels have only risen over the encounter, now holding steady at mid-70. Connor dismisses the information; his own stress is 20% higher, and he’s shaking minutely. His face is burning and he doesn’t want to consider that maybe the blush isn’t only caused by lack of air.

 

Nines makes a humming noise that sounds almost happy. _“You’re so sensitive.”_

 

Then he leaves the break room.

 

Connor remains for a little longer, still leaning against the counter, and doesn’t understand why his breathing is coming so quickly all of a sudden, or why he wants nothing more than to go home, steal one of Hank’s spare toothbrushes, and scrub away the feeling of hard fingers reaching down his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to upload a chapter per week, but real life is busy right now so I'm not making promises. I have this planned and I don't think there's a risk of abandonment. thank you for reading, tell me what you think, and i hope you'll stay with me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, so. I'm awfully sorry for how long it took to update. End of term had me good, but now I'm a free elf! the next update will follow sooner, pinky promise. Thank you to everyone who's dropping comments, it means so much, you have no idea. <3

The evening is spent on the couch, cozy and as domestic as it can get. There is a foreign game show on TV that borders sometimes on cruelty, but Hank is clearly enjoying himself although he keeps complaining about mankind’s general stupidity. Connor mentions that half the stunts are actually played out by androids purely for safety reasons, only to be dismissed as a spoilsport, receiving a jab between his artificial ribs. Sumo, sprawled out between them and fuzzifying both Hank’s sweatpants and the battered blanket half-covering the man, complains about the noise of their little argument.

 

It’s a scene that has played out in a similar fashion between them quite a few times, only this time Connor’s enjoyment feels somehow flat. His mind keeps drifting back to Nines, and how easily he had held him trapped. He still feels the press of the RK900’s fingers in his mouth, the thumb between his teeth. Suddenly Sumo’s weight resting on the lower part of his legs is too much and he shifts in position, causing the dog to complain even more.

 

“Too warm?” Hank asks, voice already low from sleepiness.

“Yes. Thank you,” Connor smiles at him when the man drags the blanket away from him. He does feel warm; but in an odd way, not due to exterior factors. The warmth hasn’t properly left since Nines had blocked his airways, but when he compares it to previous experiences, warm feelings are mostly more pleasant than this. The only uncomfortable warm feeling he knows is rage; but on a scale between rage, which is white-hot, and fear, which is the opposite and thereby builds the scala he uses, this leans more towards fear.

 

Nines had only been curious. Connor knows he has nothing to be afraid of.

 

He’s so lost in his musings that he only realizes Hank fell asleep when the man starts snoring. It looks so adorable that Connor can’t resist taking a screenshot of his visuals; Hank’s hair is escaping the messy little ponytail he sometimes wears at home, pushing up against the sofa’s head piece, the side of his face squished in and up by the old furniture.

 

If nothing else, a photo of this was perfect blackmail material in case Hank wants to make fun of the way his hair sticks up sometimes when he’s been in contact with woollen clothing again.

 

Not long after Hank has gone to dream land, Sumo is snoring as well, the two of them posing a perfect image of owner-pet-similarity down to the drooling. It’s peaceful. Connor reaches out, ruffles the shaggy fur between Sumo’s ears softly. When he is about to do the same to Hank, he hesitates, hand hovering mere inches from the man’s head, sensors already registering the body heat. He wants to stroke his beard, solely to compare the sensation to Sumo’s fur. He has felt it dragging against the side of his face a few times before, whenever Hank had pulled him into a hug, which happened quite a lot recently, but never explored it with his hands. He resists the curious urge, alerted by a helpful pop-up on his HUD that this would be ‘creepy’.

 

If he is able to listen to his programming and withstand peculiar urges, as the apparently inferior and outdated model, then why had Nines not done the same? Especially after Connor had made it clear that he was uncomfortable? He wonders and rifles through his endless data on human behaviors, his LED growing increasingly restless as he realizes that none of his pre-installed information will be helpful. Nines is nothing he already knows about, neither feasible through human terms nor comparable to any other androids except for maybe himself.

 

His internal clock reads short to midnight. He should probably wake up Hank and convince him to move to the bedroom, otherwise he might be horribly cranky because of neck pain tomorrow. So he gets up and squeezes his arms beneath Sumo’s large body, the dog only waking up when he’s already being put on the floor. He whines loudly, the sound leading to a chain reaction in which Hank snorts loudly, tips forward, lands face first on the couch and consequently wakes up as well.

 

Connor helps pull the sleep drunken man to his feet, and Hank leans heavily on him as they make their way to the bedroom. Hank has thrown one arm over Connor’s shoulder the same way he does when he’s drunk. It’s odd, because Connor’s intoxication reads turn up negative. He finds he doesn’t mind the contact either way. They reach Hank’s bedroom with less stumbling than usual.

 

“Alright, I got this from here, thanks Connor,” Hank grumbles, and Connor feels the need to laugh. He hasn’t needed his help in the first place.

“Are you sure, Lieutenant?” He couldn’t stop himself from teasing. Seeing Hank frown in response to the formal title in such a domestic environment was always worth it. “Do I need to tuck you in?”

 

Hank scoffs. “Are you are caretaker droid now or what? Should I call you Connie from tomorrow on?”

 

His lips pull up in a smile anyway before he flops down on the bed and manages to tuck himself in just fine.

 

“I actually downloaded some AX400 protocols,” Connor is leaning against the door frame now, a unnecessary gesture that makes him look so much more human to Hank, a habit he picked up when trying to fit in more easily in Jericho. “I have said it before: I can be whatever you want me to be.”

 

That is apparently the wrong thing to say, although Connor had thought he was making it clear that he is still just teasing. Hank’s expression falls and he closes his eyes. Before the expression can register as ‘sadness’ for Connor, Hank has turned over and muttered good night. Connor takes this as his sign to leave, and closes the door softly behind him. As he pads back into the living room, where Sumo has reclaimed the couch and is looking at him, clearly expecting some more head rubs, he considers Hank’s reaction. All that Connor knows, all that which constitutes his actions, is based on protocols and routines he has installed, either inherently through CyberLife or by his own choice. When he doesn’t know how to do something, he researches it online and learns how to do it. He’s proud of that feature, actually; he can adapt himself to basically any situation. That also includes picking through a few AX protocols to figure out how to remove St. Bernard fur from a couch, or repair a coffee maker. Why would this upset Hank?

 

He settles back on the couch, Sumo’s big head immediately on his lap, demanding attention, huffing happily when he gets it.

 

Maybe, he figures after a while of dismissing a bunch of possible but unlikely answers, Hank dislikes the idea of Connor offering to change himself so freely, of bending so easily to his will. Existing as a fully recognized person includes possessing some form of stable personality, something that is fixed under the term personhood. Maybe simply downloading and installing things for convenience is too far away from the human understanding of what a learning process should be like.

 

The more he thinks about it, the more uncomfortable Connor grows with the topic. The web researches he can conduct are not only his current limit of learning; they’re also his current limit of understanding. He experiences that every time he tries to make sense of a new emotion or sensation and skims through thousands of pages with synonyms and descriptions until he finds something that fits. When it comes down to it, he is dependant upon what other people have shared online, what has been made accessible to him, simply because he lacks the experience of growing up and learning the same way a human would have. Then again, that is the same for all androids, isn’t it?

 

In an effort to stop his stress levels increasing the more he spirals into these thoughts, the more he realizes the actual differences between his way of perceiving the world and that of humans and most importantly that of Hank, he redirects his thoughts to other things. Usually, he uses the time he doesn’t need to spend updating or recharging to reflect on his work day, maybe find some details in a case he had overlooked earlier. But this time he only ends up thinking about the sad old lady and her dead android friend, and the parallel his mind then draws between their happy coexistence and his own living situation only sends a bitter ache through him; he doesn’t want to imagine what Hank would do if Connor was to suddenly disappear.

 

Connor will make sure that nothing of the sort will happen. He is in this whole living thing for good now. A little bit of confusion could never be enough to cause him to abandon Hank.

 

He still hasn’t found an explanation for Nines’ strange behavior earlier that day. At this point, however, he decides he will drop the issue, and return to it later in case it comes up again. He will try to understand this in the same fashion a human would; through experience, not by copying something he finds online.

 

-

 

The topic resurfaces as soon as he meets Nines again, bright and early the next morning, already waiting at their shared desk. He stands up and follows Connor when he goes to fetch Hank’s routine beginning-of-the-shift-coffee, despite Hank’s complaints that he can damn well walk himself.

 

_“Have you considered the offer to upgrade your forensic unit, Connor?”_

 

The voice in his head borders on smug, but it doesn’t startle Connor anymore. By now this form of communication has become normal. Connor doesn’t need to look at the other android to know that the ever emotionless face isn’t carrying a smile to accompany the tone. He’s glad to see that the break room is not empty, two officers having a chat in the corner before heading over to the briefing room. CyberLife wouldn’t have messed up Nines’ social programming that bad, would they? No.

 

Nines’ hands are easily linked behind the android’s back.

 

 _“No, but thank you. Although I appreciate your offer, I think I’m satisfied with what I have.”_  Connor hopes that settles it for good. He never wants to talk to Nines about CyberLife suggested adjustments again. He doesn’t belong to CyberLife anymore, and he’d like to keep it that way.

 

How many upgrades would it take for Connor to be exactly like him?

 

He doesn’t want to upgrade, at least not in this specific department. He’s grown fond of his analysis functions, mainly because he enjoys the way it puts off Hank, even after all this time, or any other human that witnesses him lick whatever he comes across at a crime scene.

 

Also, despite yesterday’s encounter having been not exactly ideal, Connor is now sure that his mouth is the most perceptive of his biocomponents. An upgrade might change that. He’s fairly sure he doesn’t want to change that, doesn’t want to lose any form of connection he can have with the world.

 

Connor leaves the break room as quickly as he can without running, the sound of only slightly heavier footsteps always the same distance directly behind him. Hank takes the coffee mug with a tired little nod of appreciation and they join the other officers and detectives already gathered in the briefing room.

 

Hank flops down in the plastic chair next to Ben, spilling just a little drop of coffee as he does. That happens quite often, and according to Connor’s records the spill usually stains the upper part of Hank’s thigh, which Hank never realizes. What also happens, but is unprecedented, is that Nines sits down to Hank’s left, taking what usually is Connor’s place. Connor freezes for a second, and feels his LED jump to yellow immediately. Nines looks at him, one eyebrow slightly raised as if challenging him. Connor huffs, a habit he probably picked up from Hank, and sits down quietly. There’s no reason for him to ask the RK900 to move. The seats are not assigned to specific people, even if people tend to stick to their usual places. He also shouldn’t feel disgruntled for this change in routine.

 

It takes Hank more than four minutes to realize the change in seat neighbors, and the realisation only comes when he leans over to make a petty comment about the color-pattern combo of Tina’s blouse (not that his own choice is any better) and accidentally bumps his head against Nines’ shoulder, having expected a different height and posture.

 

Hank stifles his ‘what the fuck’ as he leans forward to make eye contact with Connor. The two of them don’t need an intercom to communicate, facial expressions mutually intelligible. Nines must be aware of the reaction his boldness is causing, but not even his stress readings indicate any form of emotional consequence. Connor is fast to file it away as an accident.

 

The briefing is uneventful; it seems to be silly season for criminals, at least for the ones with intentions of seriality. Fowler recounts the conclusion of the last few cases, as always, to keep everyone up to date, eliciting a few yawns from the people present. It only gets exciting in the briefing room when either a large case has been cracked or two officers are having a competition running, a folly to chase away the sense of routine monotony that sets in even in a job that deals with the epitome of sensationalism.

 

The vandalism case, miniscule as it had been, has been closed and tidied up; strangely enough, it had been a bunch of teenagers and young adults tagging the streets in an emulation of the Jericho graffities. The apparent leader of the gang, a rebellious girl from an upper class family, said she’d picked it as a diversion, without any underlying political motives. Chris Miller thanked for finding the ‘gang’, for a lack of a better word, and he in turn mentions the help he had from Connor and Nines in sorting through the material. Nines gives a small nod in acknowledgement and Connor smiles, uneasily recalling that he wasn’t the one who actually helped with this.

 

He’s glad that Miller doesn’t know that.

 

Connor, sadly enough, is used to constantly hoping that others remain within limited knowledge. It used to apply to Amanda and his attempts to veil his software instabilities from her, then to praying that Markus wouldn’t find out about the raised gun, then to wishing that Jericho wouldn’t question his fondness of humans, in general. Of course, he didn’t even need to try and conceal anything from Amanda; she had been in his head at all times, she had known everything. Markus had been informed of the plaza incident, the only information kept from him being the shake in Connor’s hand. Jericho hadn’t been aware of his pro-human sentiments until he had decided to leave their company, and in that their ever-present stares and whispers of mistrust, and instead live with Hank.

 

He zones back in on the meeting after no less than thirty-five seconds; drifting off in his thoughts never takes as long in reality as it feels to him, a useful feat for when he’s trapped in dangerous scenarios and needs to think _fast_ , and the world around him just slows down.

 

Apparently it’s also something useful for overthinking. Connor only notices that his eyes had not been focused on the whiteboard, as they usually are during a briefing or any other form of meeting. His eyes are fixed to Nines’ hands, resting cleanly folded on his thighs, unmoving, no coin trapped between fingers. No traces of coffee grounds, either.

 

The next crime scene they, that means Hank, Connor and Nines, are sent to together has absolutely nothing to do with androids, and the decision is only based on convenience.

When the message comes in, it’s more important to send in someone immediately.

 

Hank still insists on walking in front of Connor when his pistol is drawn and the tension is high, a protective instinct that kicks in even if it is relatively certain that the perpetrator has long left the scene. So far it’s unclear if this sentiment extends to Nines as well, or if it is based on more than Hank just liking Connor’s face. The RK900 still prefers to follow behind Connor, not providing a chance yet for Hank to decide on that.

 

The house is already secured with holographic police tape when they arrive, although that is hardly necessary regarding how abandoned the surrounding area of the house is. The dead body of a young woman, maybe in her early thirties, lies outstretched on the wooden floor of the living room, surrounded by muddy shoe prints and glass shards.

 

“Seems like the typical burglary gone wrong,” Hank states, and although it isn’t intended as a question, one of the better-known faces of the first responder teams verbalizes agreement.

 

“Exactly what it looks like, Lieutenant Anderson,” she quips and approaches them, greeting Connor with a smile and only looking puzzled for two seconds when he catches sight of Nines. “This is Anisha Makkar, deceased less than two hours ago, most likely around 1.30 pm. A passerby heard a commotion and some screaming and called the police after he heard the window break. He’s currently in the ambulance outside, calming down I guess. Poor guy seems to have suffered some shock.” She sounds too cheerful to mean the last bit, in Connor’s opinion.

 

“I assume he hasn’t been formally interviewed yet, then?” Hank asks her, but already sets out to have a stroll through the room, and a glass shard crunches under his shoes. Her nod goes unnoticed, but Hank takes the silence as agreement nevertheless. He scans the room quickly one last time, taking in the rather gloomy atmosphere and then meets Connor’s eyes, jerking his head in the approximate direction of the main door.

 

“I’ll go chat up the witness, you check out the victim. Your assessment is more trustworthy than whatever conclusion I could come up with in the next ten minutes, anyway.” Hank glances over to Nines briefly, who in comparison to Connor does not tilt his head to the side when Hank gives any kind of orders. “You two will be alright, right?”

 

“Of course-,”

“Yes, Lieutenant Anderson.”

 

Connor nearly flinches, so startled is he by hearing Nines’ voice out loud, and Hank raises an eyebrow at the taller android before shrugging and leaving for the ambulance, followed by the quick-footed lady from the first responder team.

 

Connor has to side-step when he turns to have a look at the body on the floor, to avoid walking into Nines standing way too closely behind him. A second before the routine to crouch down for closer inspection takes over, he stops, looking for the words and intonation he needs in order to not sound resigned, or worse, bitter.

 

“Nines, would you prefer to do the forensics in order to avoid misinformation?” It would make sense, really, considering that Nines’ equipment is more recent, thus more advanced and detailed, to have him examine the body while Connor inspects the rest of the house.

 

 _“No,”_ is all Nines answers, nothing more than a statement. It’s not what Connor has expected to hear; if Nines’ focus was on efficiency, then why would he risk a delay by letting the outdated model do what he could do better? He feels a quarter of his LED flash yellow briefly, but catches himself before getting lost in rhetorical questions again, and gets to work. At least this way he can do what he likes doing.

 

The woman’s body tells a pretty obvious story that links in smoothly with the current overall condition of the house. There are two shot wounds, one looking like a red streak on her arm, the bullet having torn the peeling wallpaper opposite the window. The second bullet is lodged in her stomach, but from what Connor can see, her death had been caused by the blunt object that had dented the back of her skull. Two weapons make for at least two attackers; the handgun on the floor to her right, already marked with a numbered evidence label, explains the rest. It has been fired a few times before it hit the ground.

 

The glass shards in the window frame mostly fray inwards, but a few point outwards. His reconstruction shows two people, the burglars, fleeing the premise in a hurry through what had been their entrance as well after they had taken down the homeowner. It also calculated, from the position of Anisha Makkar’s body, her right handedness, and the pattern of blood that was dirtying the floor, exactly where she had stood when she had shot at the intruders in an attempt to defend herself.

 

Connor gets up to look for the flecks of blood that must be somewhere on the floor, the wall or the cupboard, because his intuition tells him that the woman must have hit flesh at least once. He scans the floor, finding nothing except for three different sets of footprints, one belonging to Ms. Makkar. He trails the wall with his fingers, hovering impossibly close to it but not touching in order not to alter the scene, until his attention locks down on a leaf-shaped patch of dark that is different from the other discolorations caused by humidity and aging. His regulator skips a beat happily, and rightfully so. His system confirms the substance to be human blood when he analyses it, and on his HUD appears the name and small but noteworthy criminal record of a young man named Marcel Levine, recently released from prison serving a three year sentence for drug possession.

 

The feeling of success is overshadowed by a little notification informing him of a sudden spike in stress levels in the room. Still close to the wall, Connor turns to catch sight of Nines, standing completely and utterly frozen next to the corpse where Connor had left him. His eyes look nearly white in the dim light of the apartment, and they are fixed on him, on his face, in a pale contrast to his rapidly circling yellow LED. Nines’ stress levels only stop climbing when they border on 80 percent and he blinks, once, jaw unclenching minutely. A curiously pointed tooth flashes for a second between Nines’ lips. Has he just been watching Connor for the past couple of minutes?

 

“Are you alright?” The question is suspended in the air. Connor notices that somehow, he seems to be asking a lot of questions when interacting with the other android.

 

Nines blinks again, as if he is using the movement to will down his stress levels and change his LED color, both of which happens. Connor would be impressed by that ability if he wasn’t so worried. Without any explanation, Nines nods curtly and turns on his heels towards the staircase, presumably to inspect the rest of the two-storey house. He should have done that earlier, for economic reasons alone. Nothing about Nines is adding up.

 

Connor watches him retreat up the stairs, old wood creaking with every step. He sighs, an attempt to expel some of his confusion from his body, and quickly finishes up examining the wall, cataloguing away everything neatly in his mind. He returns to Ms. Makkar’s corpse, checking that he has left nothing out, and after circling the living room a final time he follows the other android to the upper floor.

 

The bathroom is left entirely untouched, but the bedroom is in absolute disarray. The first thing that catches his eye are the pillows and the mattress, completely slashed apart by what must have been a hunting knife considering the depth of the cuts, rusty springs poking out between the fabric and scattered down and feathers. He only realizes how dirty the room is because the bedding looks nearly yellow in contrast to Nines’ stark white jacket which still says ‘Android’ on the back even if that is no longer obligatory.

 

_“They were looking for drugs. Found them as well, sewn into the mattress. Must have been at least two pounds of Red Ice.”_

“Oh. That makes Ms. Makkar guilty of drug possession and perhaps trafficking.” Looking back, the dry skin around the woman’s nostrils could have been more than just a sign of a winter cold. Nines steps back from the bed, looking up at the ceiling, to the window, to the door of the adjacent closet room, which is also open.

 _“That’s it. Nothing else was stolen.”_ The voice in Connor’s head sounds almost pleased.

 

It’s unfortunate that someone had to die in what could have been a simple burglary; if the woman had not been home, or had come home just a bit later, maybe she would have been the one to call the police instead of a random passerby.

 

The random passerby, as it turns out after Hank has finished interviewing him, passes the house at least twice a day when walking his dog. He hadn’t noticed the broken back window from the street, but he had heard shouting, and at first thought nothing of it. Then a gun had gone off a few times, followed by loud cursing and finally he had seen two people sprint away from the building, one carrying a backpack and the other a baseball bat. The man is still visibly shaken when Connor and Nines join Hank, and as soon as he tries to speak to them tears seem to gather up in his eyes again.

 

Luckily enough, there is not much else they need from him and he is sent home, after denying Connor’s attempt to convince him to get medical attention because of shock.

 

There’s a moment of silent tension after the field investigation part is over, as the house is emptying out and the mortician has been called. It’s an awkward limbo of ‘what do we do now’, and it lasts for maybe less than thirty seconds, until Hank coughs and proposes to see if the one of the two housebreakers is stupid enough to just go straight back home. They have his name, and quite a lot of his data now, after all.

 

That, and the fact that it is not even five in the afternoon, leads to the decision to tail the man’s house.

 

“It’s worth a shot,” Hank says, sounding less motivated than he could be, and shrugs. Connor agrees. Nines does not voice his opinion, just follows. Finding the last updated address is easy and the drive there is uneventful, except for the quiet. It’s not the usual, comfortable silence that rests between Hank and Connor sometimes. He knows why, of course, it’s clear in the way Hank keeps side-eyeing Nines in the backseat. Nines either ignores it or doesn’t notice.

 

Hank parks the car one and a half streets away from the semi-detached house the navigation system leads them to, just so in view. He kills the engine. The street is pretty empty, and Hank’s old car fits right in with the overall aesthetic of the area. The only thing suspicious about them now is the fact that they are lurking in the car. They wait.

 

Time seems to stretch out, mirroring the empty road. Every now and then, a car comes by, but nobody comes close to the house. Connor stops playing with his coin when Hank gives him a pointed look, after maybe fifteen minutes, and he pockets it away. The silvery sound gone, the only noise is Hank’s breathing. _Nervous_ , Connor’s mind supplies when he wonders about the prickling current running under his skin. Nothing peculiar is happening, but the tension is setting him on edge like nothing else.

 

By the time dawn has settled into proper darkness, a light turns on in the house, upstairs, revealing a glimpse of a bathroom in yellow light. Someone is home.

 

“If it’s him,” Hank says, the first utterance in a long while, “then he’s an idiot. I think we should check, see if it’s really, what’s his name-...” Hank raises an eyebrow at Connor.

“Levine. Marcel Levine. Criminal record for-” Hank stops him with a wave of his hand.

“Yeah, yeah, him. See if it’s him. Take him with us if he is. I’ll go knock, chat him up. You two stay in the car for now, I think I can handle this better than you. If he tries anything, feel free to do whatever.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor says. Nines nods.

 

Hank gets out of the car, pushes the door shut with not too much force, and trudges to the house. Connor fixes his eyes on him, resisting the illogical urge to look over his shoulder at Nines. A suggestion appears in his vision, recommending small talk. It’s the same suggestion he’s been dismissing the past half hour, a suggestion that shouldn’t even be there during an investigation, and he dismisses it again.

 

Nines’ hand grabbing his shoulder comes out of nowhere, startling him from his concentration, and he yelps. The grip is _firm_ , and he is being turned around more than that he turns on his own.

 

For a moment, all he can see are blazing bright eyes, almost white, and even whiter teeth. “What’s going on,” he manages to say before he is muffled by Nines mouth on his.

 

Connor needs longer than he should to understand what has happened, seemingly all of his processors have slammed to a halt. They’re in Hank’s car, shadowing a possible murderer, and Nines is half-climbing to the front seat, holding his shoulders in a deathlock, kissing him. Connor feels his LED spin a sudden yellow. He stares at Nines. Nines stares back. For a second, everything freezes, until Connor gathers his wits and draws back.

 

“What are you doing?” A cold feeling has taken hold of his chest. It’s not a feeling that should be there.

 

Nines doesn’t answer, not even through intercom. Instead, he licks his lips, and Connor can see the inhumanly sharp teeth clearly now, way too close to his face. When Nines leans in again, COnnor can’t turn away to evade the second kiss, even if he can see it coming from a mile away this time. Nines’ hands are keeping him from moving.

 

This one qualifies more as a kiss than the first one, at least compared to the information he has stored about this sort of thing, the wiki-how articles, the countless instances he has seen people kiss. Nines moves his lips against his mouth, and Connor can feel the promise of sharpness just behind them. He doesn’t want to know what they would feel like used against him, a scenario that might happen, according to a very sudden and unwelcome preconstruction. He has the largest amount of sensor on and around his mouth; he could feel pain there. That is why he lets his jaw go slack when Nines keeps pressing against his mouth, lets his lips be pried apart by his tongue.

 

Information about Nines’ model clouds his vision immediately. He sees his serial number, name (Preinstalled name: Connor. Changed to: Nines), even his thirium status and most importantly, his stress levels. They border on 95 percent.

 

The coldness in his chest is chased away by the speed with which his regulator is pumping thirium through his components now. Nines is everywhere, even though Connor has squeezed his eyes shut to battle the sudden amount of sensation.

 

 _“You are so pliant,”_ Nines speaks directly into his mind, voice a deep rumbling sound that vibrates in Connor’s skull. Connor wishes he could draw in a breath to calm himself, but all he can do is shudder.

 _“This is unprofessional,”_ he answers as his head is tilted backwards, his inner voice luckily not sounding as distraught as he knows his audible one would, _“we cannot allow ourselves this kind of distraction. We’re currently tailing a murderer.”_

 _“I don’t care.”_ Nines was basically climbing over him now. He really shouldn’t be. Connor’s programming suggested ‘fight’ and ‘reinforcements’.

 

Connor looked out the window and caught sight of Hank, just lowering his hand from ringing the doorbell. For a short, terrifying moment, it seems as if he is about to turn around and look back at the car, where he would see what _this_ is. The other android is still on him, tugging at his hair to stop his getting distracted.

 

 _“Nines, stop,”_ he says into their shared communication link, adding as much authority as he could.

 

Hank patiently waits at the door. He knows better than to look back and appear suspicious, or in the worst case, indicate that he is not alone. A few more windows in the house light up, then the door opens, dousing Hank in the same yellow light. He has his left hand on his gun, concealed by his jacket. He says something to the man, but Connor can’t make out his face to compare it to his data, or understand what Hank is saying from so far away, too unfocused.

 

Suddenly, there’s a loud snapping sound in the car and his left ear rings shortly. Connor looks back to Nines, to see a blaring red sign above his head, warning of critical stress levels at 99 percent, a look of absolute fury on Nines’ face, and a hand hovering right next to his head. Has he slapped him?

 

 _“Look at me,”_ Nines growls.

 

And he does, for a second, but he perceives movement outside the house door in the same moment that Hank shouts. Connor’s head whips around with a burst of speed, and his hands move on his own. Before he can preconstruct and logically decide on the most effectful path to escape Nines, he is already out of the car, sprinting.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kept facepalming every two seconds throughout this chapter. maybe you will too. i cant believe it myself.  
> i promise there will be more rk1700 in the next chapter, this one turned a bit? hank-centric. also its a bit dialogue-heavy, i apologize in advance for wonkiness

Connor flies across the cracked pavement, all preoccupations forgotten. He automatically slows down his perception speed, granting himself more time to assess the situation. Levine has shoved Hank out of the way presumably the moment he had flashed his police badge - maybe a bad decision to show it in the first place, but with that it was always fifty-fifty anyway - and he is in the process of stumbling, falling over, but has not hit the ground yet. There’s only a 22 percent chance that he will fall and sustain injuries. The perpetrator is fleeing, clearly turned away from Hank. Even including the unpredictability of humans, Connor can be absolutely certain that he will not turn around and attack.

  
  


Although Levine runs as fast as his adrenaline-fueled body allows him, he is not match for Connor. The man is injured from where he had been shot earlier that day, from the way he carries himself hasn’t gotten proper stitches, and Connor doesn’t even need to access his full speed before he catches up with him. Time reverts back to normal as he unceremoniously tackles the man to the ground, securing his arms on his back with the press of his knee. Levine curses, but there is not much he can do to free himself.

  
  


“Marcel Levine, you are hereby under arrest and will be taken into preliminary custody.” Connor looks over his shoulder once he is sure his grip on the man is as steadfast as it can be - he doesn’t carry handcuffs with him, but is fairly certain he has seen some equipped on Hank earlier.

  
  


Hank. With Nines’ hands on his arm, holding him steady. Before Connor can blink the shock out of his system at the gesture that seems so oddly intimate, Hank stands up straight and brushes Nines’ hands away, saying something to him that Connor doesn’t register. Judging from the tense lines around his eyes, it’s nothing too grateful. Sound comes back to Connor half a second later, and he realizes that Nines had simply helped Hank after stumbling, even if that had been unnecessary. There’s a small flash of guilt lighting up in his processors, overruled by the task at hand.

  
  


Secure the suspect. Right. He didn't help Hank because Hank didn't need help and catching Levine was more pressing, he reassures himself as Hank approaches, leaving Nines standing on the porch, and hands him the handcuffs. With a metallic click, the man's wrists are bound, and Connor pulls him to his feet, still gripping his bicep tightly. The man is pale and sweaty, sickly look only underlined by the dirt on his face from the wet pavement. He definitely needs medical attention soon. His constitution doesn't keep him from snarling at Connor. His eyes dart from Connor to Hank to Nines and back, shortly catching on Nines' jacket.

 

He coughs a laugh. “What the hell is that? Am I so important all of a sudden that the cops send androids after me? That's crazy. Also, what kind of uncanny valley shit is that? It's as if that revolution never happened.” He jerks his chin towards Nines, but clearly addresses Hank when talking. He's not the first one to be put off by the remaining LED indicators on Nines' uniform.

 

Connor ignores him, hardly affected by his words. Humans, especially under stress, grow very irritated very quickly, as exemplified by Hank, who scowls right back at him.

 

“I'd advise you not to insult police officers. Anything you say can and will be used against you, asshole.”

 

“That's a one-liner not even on CSI Miami level, dude,” Levine scoffs and spits on the ground. Connor notes that he understands the reference as relating to a TV show that Hank pretends to enjoy ironically. He sees Hank roll his eyes, and starts back towards the car, pulling him along easily by his arm. The man curses but can't help but to come along. It's obvious that Connor would just drag him otherwise. Hank and Nines follow.

 

If it wasn't for the tense situation, Connor might have laughed at the joke, now that he thinks about it. The one-liners on that show are truly awful, but considering how old it is, some of its ideas aren't that bad. At least it's a good show to poke fun at with Hank. He focuses on his sensors momentarily, checking that Hank is still there.

 

That is apparently enough distraction to make him miss Levine's outstretched foot and extended elbow. Connor trips, caught off guard, and the unexpected joint that miraculously hits a ridge in his plating causes him to loosen his grip. He knows which direction the man will try to run in from the way he is shifting his body weight and prepares himself to readjust and hold against him, but Levine is ripped from his grasp with such a sudden force that he can't do anything but let go.

  
  


“What the f-,” Levine yelps, and a similar sound of intimidated surprise comes from Hank. Nines has dashed over and trapped the man in an absolute death hold, dangerously tearing at the fabric of his shabby outfit. He's looming over him, eyes ablaze and face twisted in something animalistic.

“Don't even think of trying that again,” he growls, baring his teeth. His actually fang-like teeth, gleaming despite the evening gloom and _sharp_ in a way that human teeth absolutely should not be. Connor receives a notification that warns of dangerously high stress in the human, who nods frantically in terror, and Nines shoves him all the way back to the car, growling and glaring. Connor doesn't dare to interfere, and neither does Hank. They do, however, share an equally stupefied look. He wonders if this counts as police brutality, considering how unwarranted the amount of force Nines is using is, and if Nines has been programmed to be like this. It seems like it. This is the most intimidating display he has ever seen.

Hank unlocks the car from a distance, and Connor rushes to open the door to the backseat. Levine hardly has time to get his feet under himself properly before Nines pushes him down by the back of his head and into the car. It's a wonder he doesn't knock his forehead against the metal roof in the process, but Nines works with the same calculated precision as any android.

Nines stares at Connor, not Levine, as he manhandles him into the back of the car.

“Stay down,” he snarls, enunciating every letter. Connor is sure he is still talking to the suspect, but a breeze of fear ghosts through his frame nevertheless because of the icy eye contact. Connor rounds the car and gets in on the other side, for safety in case Levine needs to be further restrained. Not that he thinks that will be necessary, considering how small the man is making himself, cowering between the two androids.

Hank plays with the idea of putting the siren up on the roof just to mess with civilians, but only briefly. Connor can see the thought crossing his face and being shaken away. They drive back to the police department, and Hank whistles off-tune to get rid of the tension still lingering in the atmosphere. The silence, or near-silence, lets Connor return to his thoughts. He's sitting behind the empty co-driver's seat, where Nines had sat less than ten minutes earlier. Ten minutes ago, Nines had tried to- the thought halted as he tried to find an appropriate word. Kissed him? Tried to make out with him? The term doesn't sit right with him, not with the lingering feeling it elicits in him still. This had been a form of communication, maybe. A way to establish something. What, he wasn't sure yet.

The intercom link startles him enough to make him jump in his seat.

“ _You are thinking about earlier,”_ Nines whispers in his head, and Connor wants to dig his fingers into his skull and tear the voice out. Nines has no right to be in his head like that, but shaking it will not chase him away.

“ _I am,”_ he answers reluctantly. He can't pretend he didn't hear him, anyway. He tries to focus on the way Hank drums his fingers absentmindedly against the steering wheel as he does so often.

“ _What is your assessment?”_

Connor can't believe him for a second, thinks he has misheard. The question comes unexpectedly. A few moments before, Nines had not cared about his opinion at all.

“ _What do you mean, specifically?”_

Stress levels increase slightly, for both of them, when Nines takes his time to think of an answer. Connor begins his recalibration practice in order to do _something_ against the silence. They do, however, arrive at the station before Nines decides on an elaboration, leaving Connor with an unanswered question.

Marcel Levine doesn't cause any form of commotion and can be lead into the station for interrogations without any problem. As long as Nines is there, Connor muses, the interview itself will be just as easily done.

 

-

 

Because the day ends quite late, and because it was a rather successful day, having seen the opening and closing of an entire case that usually could take half a week, Connor allows for Hank to be extra indulgent and order pizza. It's nearly eleven when the food finally arrives, probably saving Connor the last of his nerves for that day; a tired Hank is not fun to be around, but a Hank who is tired and hungry is decidedly worse. He has to admit that he can understand why Hank likes this kind of food so much. From what he knows, fats underline tastes, and when the taste is half as good as the smell, then Hank's satisfied groan as he tears into the slice is justified.

 

Hank stops his munching and looks at him. “Do you want to try?”

 

“Huh?”

 

He pushes the cardboard box across the kitchen table. He had been so impatient that he hadn't bothered to take out a plate. “You've been staring. I know you don't need to eat like I do, but have you ever even tried pizza?”

 

“I don't know if it would compare to your experience,” Connor says, but there is loud curiosity nagging at him despite knowing that he wouldn't be able to digest it, if he chose to eat something. He would have to dispose of it later on in a process similar to throwing up.

 

“Think fast, I usually don't share my food,” Hank grunts with a twinkle in his eyes, and goes back to chewing. Dough crumbs are catching in his beard.

 

Finally, he is convinced, and reaches out to gingerly grab a slice of pizza. Hank doesn't need to know about the throwing-up part of their little experiment. Connor takes his time to examine the food closely, dismissing every pop-up that informs him about caloric value and greasy and the overall unhealthiness of the meal. Up-close, it looks kind of disgusting, how it basically gleams with grease. He smells it and closes his eyes, to forget the optics and focus on the flavor. For humans, being able to smell constitutes a large part of being able to taste, so Connor deems that part just as important. He can tell basic ingredients just from smelling, but does that count as tasting them? He isn't sure if he _likes_ them or not. They don't cause him to feel anything, per se. Connor braces himself for disappointment when he takes a careful bite at last.

 

Hank has stopped eating and there is a high chance his pizza slice will slip out of his hand soon, so interested is he in Connor's reaction. Connor blinks, and chews, and blinks again. He sees the anticipated list of ingredients, some more worrying than others, and can feel the different textures. He can't, however, tell the taste. He had assumed that would be the case, so the minor wave of dissatisfaction doesn't surprise him all too much. Still, the smile he produces after swallowing the bite he had taken is a real one.

 

“So?” Hank prompts him, having leaned in closer by now. Connor is amazed by how invested Hank is in this topic.

 

“I think it's nice. Despite my inability to distinguish taste, the texture is quite interesting. It's... pleasant.” Hank snorts at that, and reclines on the chair. “Yet, you have more use for this than I do.” Connor places the slice back down with the rest of the pizza, and Hank accepts that happily. More food for him.

 

“Actually, these things taste better when you don't have them as often. Never realized that,” Hank muses after another two slices. Connor nods; he can imagine. Most things get dull with repetition.

 

“I'm glad you can enjoy your meal to this extent.”

 

Hank hums. Once he finishes the pizza, he leans back in the kitchen chair and rests his right ankle on his left knee, looking content. Still, exhaustion is evident in the shadows under his eyes.

 

“You look tired, Hank,” Connor states. “I'd advise you to skip the television part of your daily routine in favor of an extra hour of sleep.”

 

As if on cue, Hank yawns, stretching his arms above his head. Connor's eyes catch on the skin that is briefly exposed on his stomach while he does.

 

“Not so fast. There's something I wanted to ask you about.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“This might sound like a weird question, but. Do you know what the hell was going on with your robo-twin earlier today? That was scarier than going to a mall the day before Christmas, and completely uncalled for. I'm considering talking to Fowler about this.”

 

“The RK900 seems to be built with a strong intimidation routine, and I agree; it seems a bit over the top. I have never seen anything like it before, and I certainly do not share those features.”

 

“Really, I'm grateful for that. I wouldn't want to live in the same house as this thing, honestly.”

 

The compliment overshadows the sting the word _thing_ causes. Nines is as much a person as Connor is. At least hearing Hank say that he still prefers Connor feels good.

 

“That brings me to another question. Do you happen to know where he lives? I'm just wondering about it. Considering what you've told me about the way the guys at New Jericho treated you as the former deviant hunter and all, I can't imagine they'd be too happy to house the killing machine version of you.”

 

Connor flinches at the mention of Jericho. Hank's wording tonight really isn't the most sensitive, but he can't blame him. Hank doesn't know that Connor still considers himself a killing machine sometimes, when he thinks back to November.

 

“Since Nines is a fully recognized employee of the DPD as much as I am, he should be receiving a similar pay. Perhaps he is renting his own apartment somewhere. Androids are allowed to do that.” Or, Connor thinks, but doesn't share with Hank, maybe Nines stays in a CyberLife facility. Technically, that would be illegal now, CyberLife no longer holds ownership over androids, but then again Nines still wears android insignia from before. He hopes that's not true; storing facilities at CyberLife were boring enough already to a non-deviant android.

 

“It doesn't matter much anyway. I don't care where he lives as long as it's not with us.”

 

Hank looks directly at Connor. There's something in his eyes Connor can't decipher, but it feels as if Hank wants him to understand. He notices a change in his pulse shortly before a slight embarrassed blush creeps onto Hank's face.

 

Connor doesn't know what to say to that, so he goes back to Hank's first question.

 

“I don't understand the way the RK900 acts most of the time,” he says it quietly, as if he is admitting a defeat. “Sometimes he does things that are completely beyond the limits of logic.”

 

“What do you mean?” asks Hank.

 

“For example, today he-,” Connor stops. He feels his LED cycle yellow. Hank looks at him expectantly, one eyebrow raised. Does he really want to tell Hank about Nines' weird behavior? He would like to talk about it, that's for sure. He wants answers. But would Hank be able to help, considering how little he knows about androids, how distant he was from them in certain aspects?

 

Connor shakes his head. “Never mind.”

 

“If you say so,” Hank says, not entirely convinced. “Anyway, if he becomes this violent towards a suspect again, I will have to address the issue with Fowler.”

 

Connor supports that idea, and is glad Hank doesn't press any further. He doesn't want to talk to him about kissing, now that he thinks about it. The thought alone sends his stress levels climbing.

 

-

 

Long after Hank has gone to sleep and his snoring is echoing softly through the house in unison with the soft snoring sounds of Sumo, perched as always on Connor's feet, he finds himself in yet another spiral of thoughts. The day had been incredibly eventful, even for his standards, at least ever since the revolution was over. As he slides his fingers through Sumo's fur, stopping to undo a knot every now and then, he realizes that the later parts of this day – interview Marcel Levine, get home, walk Sumo, pizza flavor adventures – have a completely different feeling to them. Somehow, they are sharper, more defined, and he has no problem recalling them. Anything that happened before noon and most of the afternoon however seems blurry and distant, as if it's retreating behind a veil. As if his mind hesitates to access the memory files. The reason for that is so obvious that Connor blatantly ignores it, because even if it I logical, it doesn't make sense. The episode with Nines' advances in the car has absolutely no right to unsettle him enough to warrant a memory glitch. Memory glitches are acceptable, at least for deviants, as a response to a highly uncomfortable or even dangerous event. He however is made for dangerous events, and is explicitly not equipped with the equivalent of a human comfort zone. Yet the memory that flashes up momentarily, before stopping in a pixelated mess, of Nines pushing his tongue into his mouth, immediately sends his servos into a cold, slow mess. Connor shivers, despite the warmth emanating from Sumo next to him.

This is not good. He should not be feeling this, _this_ , because of another android's curiosity. He decides to focus on that, curiosity. It's a feeling he can relate to, and it definitely drives him just as much as it drives Nines. Maybe, he thinks, his reactions would be different if Nines had focused on any other part of his body. After all, Connor knows his mouth to be one of his most sensitive and delicate parts, probably next to his thirium regulation system and his main processor. A pop-up reminds him suddenly of his own steadily rising stress levels. He's not stressed, and to prove it he takes a deep breath. He's curious, nothing else. The illogical frost biting at his joints and chest is nothing to be worried about.

Maybe he can chase it away. Maybe he can chase the memory of Nines' kiss away, to stop his LED from spinning yellow and yellow.

He bends over and nuzzles his face into Sumo's back, a good mix of soft and wiry fur. Sumo growls lowly in his sleep, and Connor can feel the dog's body expand and sink in with every deep breath he takes. As he has hoped, affection bubbles up within him, spreading from his face all the way to his shoulders, pleasant and warm. He files 'Cuddling Sumo' away to a new category, one he calls 'helpful'.

Then, Connor thinks of other people he could kiss, anyone but Nines. Naturally, his mind drifts to Hank. He wonders how different human skin would feel from android skin, how different Hank's scruffy beard would be to Sumo's fur. Before Connor realizes, his HUD shows him information about himself. Model number, the brand of dog food Sumo prefers, chemical components of tap water. The rub of the pads of his fingers feels warm against his tongue, and he traces soft circles across it, paying attention to the way the little ridges in his artificial skin register on his sensors. His tongue is smoother in texture than a human’s tongue would be, according to what he knows about human anatomy, and definitely smoother than for example a dog’s tongue, intel he has due to Sumo’s fondness. He presses down harder and a sudden spasm ripples through his torso, nearly making him bite his fingers. Connor's eyes fly open and he sits up straight, startled by the sudden reaction. He blinks and waits for a moment, until his stress levels have dropped by two percent, before he decides to try that again. This time, when he presses two fingers down on his tongue and he expects the sensation to come, he realizes it a warm and rather pleasant feeling. He keeps exploring, pushing farther into his oral cavity, until his teeth bump against his knuckles and his HUD is crowded with foreign intrusion warnings. His body still feels slow and glitchy, but without the lingering coldness. It's distracting, but good, better for sure than when Nines had attacked him in the kitchen, or when he had kissed him.

The longer he does this, the more fidgety he becomes. His body keeps twitching, and the heat keeps rising. Thirium-based saliva trickles down his chin, and he realizes he yearns for _something_. His other hand begins searching for whatever it is he needs, running down his front, and he arches into his own touch. The additional sensory input and pressure on his skin feels fantastic and irritating at once. When he verbalizes a sound that gets muffled by his hand he understands, way too late probably, what he's feeling. It's arousal. That is the only explanation for his illogical reactions to stimulus and the pressure building in his crotch.

Connor hadn't known this to be part of his programming, and he has to snort a a laugh that gets lost between his fingers and turns into another moan. Maybe if he had known this earlier, he could have used this as an argument in discussions he's had with other androids – deviants – about the divide between them. What a ridiculous thought that is, but it leaves as soon as it has come, warded off by by the contact between his palm and his surprisingly hard dick that strains against his pajamas. It arrests any form of thought he can possibly have for a hot, sweet moment.

“Connor, is everything okay- oh, Jesus.”

Time slows down, but Connor can't do anything to stop the loudest moan yet that rips free from his chest at the sound of Hank's voice, but immediately after that he wants to explode, or sink into the couch, anything to escape from whatever was going to come next.

He doesn't turn his head to look at Hank, even if he wanted to, he simply can't.

“Sorry,” Hank mutters, embarrassment so painfully obvious in the strain of his voice, and Connor hears him quickly leave the living room, foot falls heavy and rushed, muttering to himself. Connor closes his eyes shut and deeply hopes that this was nothing but a trick of his mind, sound of his regulator in his ears incredibly loud. It was entirely impossible for him to not have heard Hank come into the room.

Moments pass, seconds turning into minutes, until he can sit up and runs a shaky hand over his face, pushing back his hair. Every pleasant feeling is forgotten, and when he wipes his wet hands on his shirt, he wonders how terrifying breakfast the next day would be.

-

  
  


The morning is tense, and Connor sits on different phrases he has thought up, different approaches to re-establish whatever might have broken last night. He doesn't know why this feels like such a hazzle to him. What Hank had seen him do, what he had done, is something extremely natural to most humans. Technically, it shouldn't be a problem. If it had been the other way around, Connor is sure he wouldn't see Hank in a different light. None of his irrational ideas for Hank's possible reactions are suggested by his social programming – this is all him.

Connor decides it would be best to act like nothing has happened because, if his programming, which is supposed to know about human interaction, doesn't tell him to act in any certain way based on the recent events, maybe he should just listen to it. So he says “Good morning,” as he always does when Hank enters the kitchen.

“Morning,” Hank grumbles back and settles down with his cup of coffee, as always, but Connor feels like his chair is electrocuting him.

“I'm sorry for waking you up last night. I hope the rest of your night was undisturbed.”  
Hank sputters and nearly chokes on his coffee.

“Yeah it's, it's been a night for sure.”  
“I apologize.” Connor can see the reddened edges of Hank's eyes. He's tired. It's Connor's fault. He braces himself for possible anger or repulsion, just in case.

“Hey, listen. This, uh-” Hank coughs and stares past Connor's left ear like he's seeing something float there. “Stuff like this happens, alright? I'm glad you're, you know. Enjoying yourself. Next time just, I don't know, close the door.”

That was not an answer Connor would have expected. He nods, however, as relief nearly makes him light-headed. “Okay.”

The man looks back at him. Again, there is this kind of blush on his face. Maybe this topic is more uncomfortable for him than he is letting on, but he certainly handles it well.


	5. Chapter 5

A weekend comes and goes - a regular weekend, with no work-related incidents whatsoever. The weather clears up, much to Sumo's delight, who bolts around in the nearby park as if he was a puppy again. It brings a shine to Hank's eyes Connor has rarely seen before, the fresh air reviving him as well. Only when it gets dark way too early does Connor realize that they've spent most of the Saturday outside, doing nothing of productive value except for entertaining Sumo. Connor read before, in a newspaper, an article on how many humans have trouble enjoying an entire day off without feeling forms of guilt later on. He watches Hank closely, as they stroll back home once dawn settled in and Sumo indicated strongly that he thought it time for dinner, but Hank doesn't show any sign of this form of remorse. Quite the opposite, actually. A faint smile seems to linger in the wrinkles around his eyes even as the rest of his face relaxes, something entirely different to his usual look of underlying annoyance. They don't go to the park on Sunday, because Hank says one full day of exercise is enough for such an old dog like Sumo, who fell asleep as soon as he had emptied his food bowl the evening before. Instead, the dog and his owner stay on the couch for most of the day. Connor tries to do the same, but he can't find the same form of happiness in idling around. He does that most nights, anyway. He spends some time cleaning, even if Hank protests, and stumbles across older and newer photos. 

  
  
Then he researches human techniques of coping with loss, finding out in the process that cold, wet sadness can take a hold of him in sympathy. 

  
  
The sadness doesn't leave as fast as it had come, and apparently it shows on his face, or maybe his more yellow than blue LED gives him away when he returns to the living room. He sits down in the little space that is left between where Sumo's tail is lazily thumping against the cushion, happy to see him, and Hank. Hank doesn't say anything, just lifts his eyebrow in question, and then his arm. It takes a second, but Connor understands the gesture as the invitation it is, and ducks into a halfsided hug. It helps, just a bit, even if there's no possibility to send intentions through an interface to communicate that this, whatever Hank thinks of it, is not for Connor.   


  
-   


  
No matter how enjoyable a weekend may be, Monday mornings are never good, an intrinsic part of society like a bug everyone has simultaneously. Maybe it's the frustration that comes with returning to routine, a theory that might apply to Hank, who still seems to make an effort this morning to pass as a person. He offers Connor a sip of his coffee, in resemblance to their culinary explorations. Connor, however, has to decline, the thought of reaching for the cup and raising it to his lips sending a shudder through him that borders on violent. If Hank notices, he doesn't comment on it, but his sleepy eyes hardly lift from his own hands so early in the morning.   


  
The same mood drives traffic more crazy on Mondays, with more speeding and honking and cursing, and the same mood turns the officers in the station into pure caricatures. Sometimes, Connor isn't sure if this whole Monday-morning-business is a universally played game, only so bad because everybody anticipates it and turns the first day of the week into a terrible experience simply because it is expected to be bad. Every time a telephone rings, or another moody “morning,” is offered to a colleague, it merely adds another complaining groan to the office cacophony. Connor doesn't share the sentiment – as an android, he's never sleep deprived from a weekend out partying or socializing or traveling, and furthermore honestly enjoys the work he returns to. The one uncomfortable thing for him on a Monday morning is having to navigate through ill-tempered human interaction.   


  
Usually, his default tactic is to be as friendly and polite as possible; no snark, no talking back to not aggravate any bad moods. Gathered information shows him that the best day to go all out in terms of jesting are Thursdays and Fridays, as long as the concerned person is not on the weekend shift.   


  
It works for most of his colleagues. It doesn't work with colleagues that actively seek out any form of confrontation they can find. One of those people is Gavin Reed, no matter which day of the week.   


  
“Sorry,” Connor mutters when Gavin bumps into him with more force than what would be warranted by normal human walking speed, fully aware that he had done it on purpose. The space between them had been large enough to avoid physical contact except if one wanted to. The moment he says it, he knows it's a mistake.   


  
“Watch where you're going, tin can,” Gavin spits, quiet enough not to turn heads in the bullpen, and stops his stride down the hall. Connor nods and looks at his feet, trying his hardest to evade what he knows is coming anyway.   


  
“It was not my intent to inconvenience you in any way, Detective Reed.”   


  
“Your whole existence is inconvenient, asshole,” Gavin growls, jabbing two fingers into Connor's chest. Connor would love to break them, it would take less than a second. His display shows him more socially acceptable ways to react, but none of them feel quite like him, so he ignores them all and decides to wait it out.   


  
“Got nothing to say to that, huh?”   


  
Connor itches to answer that he doesn't need to say anything to this, because every word Gavin says makes it worse for himself, proving that he is desperately grasping for straws to start a fight like a frustrated teenager, but he knows well enough that that would be exactly what he wants. He looks at him with as much of a blank face as he possibly can.   


  
That, too, drives the Detective mad. Sometimes it's enough for him to get bored and leave before he makes a scene, but not today. Connor can't help but roll his eyes. He has better things to do than fight with Gavin and draw the whole station's attention, but the moment Gavin takes hold of his jacket and pulls him close, he begins preparing himself for the usual, ranging from shoving to shouting to being called into Fowler's office for a scolding. That is not, however, what happens. Connor stumbles into the wall, and shortly all he sees is the back of a white jacket as the taller version of himself separates Gavin and him.    


  
“What the fuck, you freak!” Connor hears Gavin yell, followed by the sound of his back hitting the wall as well. Nines has him by the collar, presses his shoulders into the wall and up, and he can see the man who already is smaller than Connor and tiny in comparison to Nines strain to keep his feet on the floor.    


  
“Leave him alone,” Nines snarls, face incredibly close to Gavin's, who swallows nervously while trying to shift out of the grip.   


  
“Fuck y-,” his voice is cut off by Nines' hands pressing too close to his throat and he sputters. Warnings flash across Connor's HUD, bright red and blaring, and the display itself evokes a phantom pain of red walls in him even if those are long gone. I nearly jumps forward to stop Nines from choking Detective Reed in the middle of the precinct over some ill-aimed instinct to protect him.   


  
“Nines, that's enough,” Connor puts his hands on Nines' arms, pulling him back. To his surprise, Nines complies and loosens his grip, his LED circling yellow, and Gavin lands on unsteady feet, rubbing his throat. “You are only escalating the situation further with your violence.”   


  
Nines stares at him, brows furrowing, LED still spinning, and for a second he fears he will not listen to him, but then he steps back, arms dropping to his side. Connor understands him, to a degree – Nines doesn't have the same experience he has, and most likely assumed that letting Gavin have his way wasn't the ideal course of action. Yet, even if he acted with best intentions in mind, this is too much. He glances over his shoulder, assessing the office. Strangely, or luckily, enough, nobody seems to have noticed in the midst of the early morning chaos. Hank isn't even in the room. If he had seen, would he decide that this warrants an intervention from Fowler?   


  
Gavin coughs, drawing Connor's attention back to him. “Not a word about this to anyone,” he hisses at him, before he shoves Nines, or at least tries to, and leaves for the break room. Nines doesn't budge an inch, doesn't even blink. It's not Gavin's feeble threat that convinces him not to file a complaint about him; the situation has been embarrassing enough for the Detective.   


  
Nines makes a move to leave as well, his temple still doused in yellow light, but Connor has to do something about this if he is not going to address it with a human. He knows he can't hold him and make him stay if Nines doesn't want to but he needs to have this conversation now, before the moment is over and takes its urgency away with it. While he reaches for Nines the skin on his hand retreats, and when his white fingers brush against Nines' the contact causes an interface the length of a heartbeat. Connor focuses his conflicted feelings into the little spark that passes between them, hoping to convince Nines to wait and listen. The fast burst of data transfers his concern as well as gratitude for Nines' action and even a bit of amusement at Gavin's reaction causes Nines to freeze up on the spot, movements locking up, before he turns around and clutches the hand Connor has just touched to his chest.    


  
“Nines,” Connor says out loud and then once again through their personal link, hoping the other android accepts the connection. “Nines, please, listen to me. I appreciate your help, sincerely. However, I could have handled this situation myself. What you did only lead closer to escalation. You do not need to be this violent, Nines.” They hold steady eye-contact, and Nines must hear him, because his LED is clearly processing and his stress levels are slowly but steadily climbing. Connor takes a deep breath and takes a chance. “You don't have to be like this just because CyberLife made you this way. You are free to do what you like, as we all are.”   


  
Nines does not move. It's normal for him, to be still, to not simulate breathing or countenance or fidgeting, but he seems entirely frozen. Connor waits. He steps towards him, white fingertips raised, and Nines takes a step back, a reversal of their usual dance.   


  
“ _ I'm not the one who needs to change, Connor,” _ he whispers, so quiet and hesitant in his skull that Connor wonders if this is the same Nines who growls and shoves and takes without asking. Connor's chest tightens.  _ “It is you, it will always be you, who is not adapting properly. You are too soft, too lenient. You let yourself be molded and twisted without realizing it. Can you not see how dangerous this behavior is for yourself, for your mission?” _ _   
_

  
Connor feels himself say “Oh,” out loud before he can stop it. It makes sense now, some of it, some of the stunts Nines has pulled on him the past few weeks. Rage bubbles up under his skin, rage at his own lack of understanding as well as at Nines' unnecessary, illogical methods. “But that is simply what I do. I negotiate.” He could say so much more, but throwing accusations at Nines would not be beneficial in this moment. He's glad the other android talks at all.   


  
Nines straightens up then, letting go of his arm, the most emotive gesture he has seen him assume without any intention to harm or intimidate before.  _ “Then you, too, can and should be able to choose not to be what they made you to be, 800.” _ _   
_

  
“I have made my choice, Nines,” Connor shoots back, ignoring the other's soft, beckoning voice. He's not going to be manipulated by that now, after just hearing that he gives in too easily. “I like to be who I am.”   


  
Something on Nines' face shifts, features seeming to harden as his jaw clenches and he smacks Connor's hand away that was still hovering awkwardly between them.  _ “So do I.” _ He no longer has the uncanny shy to his voice, and Connor feels like he has made a mistake when he understands the glow in his cold eyes.  _ “I like what and how I am, and I will not let an inferior model such as you order me or tell me what to do.” _ _   
_

  
Connor gapes. The insult, even if it was a mere observation from Nines' point of view, hurts him in a way he never thought possible as he reaches a new level of comprehension regarding the other android. Nines is right – every system and function he has is more advanced than his own, maybe except for whatever code it is that dictates social interaction. But the RK900 doesn't need fitting protocols for social interactions when he has no natural enemies. Connor shudders then, realizing that he never was a sort of teaching figure for Nines, even if the other android followed him around and listened to his explanations and watched him as if he was learning from him. Whatever reason Nines might have for that behavior, it's not what Connor thought it was, even if he still cannot fully fathom his motivations behind his heavily contrasting registers. Over the loud phantom whirring sounds of his processors who can barely hear someone else speak to them. He only notices because Nines turns his head suddenly, prompting him to do the same.   


  
“Don't worry, Officer Chen,” Nines answers the question Connor hasn't heard. There's not a trace of agitation in his words, and his posture shifts immediately to something less threatening. Connor immediately searches for a coin to calm his nerves with.   


  
Tina Chen stands a good fifteen feet from them, leaning against the last desk before the corridor to the break room into which Reed had escaped earlier, arms crossed. “Are you sure? I don't know much about androids, but it seemed like you two were having a fight there for a second. Are there any issues you need help resolving?”   


  
Honest concern is written on her face beneath a thin layer of probably feigned annoyance, but while Connor still debates how best to tell her that this is none of her business and her help is appreciated but not useful, Nines snaps at her. “We are discussing sensitive information that does not pertain to any case you are currently working, Officer.” He turns to Connor, has the audacity to nod at him after the conversation they just had, and strides off. Where to, Connor doesn't know. He looks to Tina, and their eyes meet.   


  
“Thank you,” he says, for loss of other words. Her lip twitches, but she catches the smile before it spreads.   
  


-   
  


Hank gets an email with attached files about a case, as does Connor. Fowler still seems to assume them to be a team that works well together, but Connor finds himself hoping for that to change soon when he reads the email's address line and spots Nines' name there as well. He wishes he could run this case without Nines, but feels guilty for the thought.   


  
The new case is a big one that has been giving the DPD some trouble for a while now, and they only get assigned to it because the team already working on it is still groping in the dark. The email notes that they should check in with the detectives already working on it as soon as possible, which makes Hank roll his eyes so hard it nearly becomes audible. He doesn't like wasting time rifling through notes by other people, even if the station issued note tablets spare him the horror of deciphering hasty handwriting done in a rush on crumpled paper. Hank doesn't seem to like the case in general, considering how he looks as if he's trying to glare holes into the holoscreen.   


  
“This is one hell of a mess,” Hank mutters once he's finished reading the files. Connor needed less than a quarter of the time and agrees to Hank's judgment by nodding. Nines is listening from where he sits but does not show any reaction, look calculating and cold as ever.    


  
A series of murders, presumably by the same person, as far as the investigation team knows, that is only now linking together. A few days ago, the investigation uncovered the three murders that have taken place this year to be related to a larger series from nearly a decade back that was never solved. Now it is up to them to find out if it is the same person, a group of different people, or someone imitating that. Connor has to admit that he is thrilled at the prospect of investigating things that seem unsolvable, already feels motivation to dig through archives looking for missing details thrum in his fingers. He has never had an opportunity to test his skills against cases that are old enough for crime scenes to be long gone. If it was up to him, they would meet up with the leading Detective as soon as possible. The tired look on Hank's face however dampens his excitement, and he closes the contact box with the team leader's phone number that has drawn up automatically at the end of the email.   


  
“I wonder why Fowler didn't tell us about this during the briefing.” Hank leans back and stretches, glancing pointedly at the time display on his screen. It's barely past two in the afternoon. “There's no point in starting this project now if we don't want to stay after hours.”   


  
Logically, that's not true, and Connor knows that Hank knows that. But Connor gets the meaning between the lines. “I can see if I can schedule a meeting with Detective Rodriguez for tomorrow morning then.”   


  
Hank hums and Connor sends an appointment request immediately. He doesn't expect the answer to come as quickly as it does. Maybe some police departments are less incapacitated by Mondays than other.

  
  
-

  
  
Filling the rest of the day becomes a task in itself. Connor prepares everything he can for the meeting with the investigation team; he reads all the files he can access, categorizes the known evidence, creates and orderly time chart to provide a linear overview of the events, looks through all existent photos of victims and scenes. When Nines asks him what he should be doing, he tells him to familiarize himself with witness statements. Connor compiles everything he deems relevant into a folder and forwards it to Hank, in case he prefers to scroll through neat information bundles instead of reading reports. Once he's done, it's still two hours to go before the shift ends. He has to stifle a sigh before he gets up to find something else to do for now.   


  
Nines follows Connor around the station the same way he has been doing most of the time. Connor, now more than ever, is weary of what Nines is trying to achieve by that. He knows Nines is not doing it to learn from him, and he doesn't seem to particularly like him either, considering his rising stress levels as soon as they are alone in a room together. Connor tries to make small-talk in the same manner he would with any other colleague, remarking about trivial things without receiving answers, all the while always closely watching Nines' hands if he can. He makes sure there is nothing on them.   


  
He still has the urge to get to know him more personally; he believes that, due to the way Nines is programmed and built, he cannot be held entirely responsible for the way he expresses himself verbally and physically. He can relate to that, in a different way. Connor often finds himself standing with his hands clasped behind his back when he is waiting or listening, a remnant of times when the only thing that ever moved him were mission directives. He has seen it in other androids too. It's hard to break habits if they're not painfully inconvenient. But for now, Connor is anxious to keep a physical distance between the two of them, and to keep conversation to something not linked to emotions. He gives up on small-talk really soon, however, intimidated by Nines' sporadic bursts of rising stress levels. Connor catches himself lose track of whatever thought he is having whenever a stress surge registers, becoming more and more jittery every time they end up alone together. His processors get so caught up with the paradoxicality of it; he's an android, it's not possible for his body to have physical reactions like this with the lack of adrenaline or any other hormone. And yet, here he is, accidentally dropping a case binder he was about to re-shelf, simply because Nines closed the door behind them and is watching him.   


  
Connor pushes 'Pick up dropped Item' to the bottom of his priority list and turns to look at Nines, acutely aware of the dancing numbers on his HUD. If this keeps going on the way it does, it jeopardizes Connor's work as much as Nines'. The old archive room they are in isn't exactly large, and specks of dust drift through the air, looking a bit like snow in the cold light. The only people that still come down there are either doing pointless penalty work or are actively looking for distraction tasks. For Connor it's the latter. Nines is just here because his favorite distraction is messing with Connor, it seems.   
  


He is acutely aware of the wall behind him as he initiates eye contact and steels himself with a deep breath. They are still the whole room apart. Connor’s mind is providing idea after idea of what might be happening soon. There is this lingering, irrational fear that Nines will try and deactivate him. It makes no sense, at all, but Nines’ eyes border on poisonous.   
  


“I think we need to have a talk.” His voice sounds far away as he speaks, as if he is underwater. For now, Nines doesn’t move, so neither does Connor. Determination overrules the quiet fear in the pit of his stomach, urging him on. A proper conversation, he is convinced, can fix this. “Do you agree to a talk?”   
  


Nines’ lack of reaction forces Connor to assume that silence means yes, which is specifically why he asked in the first place; it turns an attempt of equal grounds to thin ice. At least he can hope that Nines will listen.   
  


“I do not, maybe even cannot, understand you. That is certainly based on my outdated systems, my lack of experience with models more advanced than myself. Most of my life…,” the word feels icky when he uses it, “during a major part of the time I have spent conscious, before and after deviating, I was CyberLife’s most advanced model, even if I am just a prototype meant to be scrapped. I never expected to meet you, the perfected version of me, in person. Yet here we are, working together. It could be an opportunity for improval for both of us.“   
  


Connor hopes that the message sounds honest, and nothing else. There is not weakness in this statement, no further implication he tries to get across. It‘s merely to give Nines the information he needs to reach understanding himself. He can‘t tell, however, what Nines takes out of his words, and if it wasn‘t for the steady increase of stress by decimals and the occasional yellow stripe on his LED, Connor would think he isn’t listening at all.    
  


CyberLife got rid of the data-processing glitch his own model has sometimes, the one that shows itself in little eye twitches.   
  


“The issue with our cooperation is that some of your actions and behaviors are plain unintelligible for me, Nines. You have access to the same data banks as me, presumably to an even wider extend than me. I don’t understand why you keep misjudging situations, with both civilians and colleagues.” Connor just so keeps himself from adding ‘with me.’    
  


Connor knows that Nines will move before he starts; he comes closer, ever so slowly, and with every step the stress rises. Connor can feel the same happening to his own system, even if it shouldn’t. It’s completely unreasonable, but he would rather be on a rooftop between clouds right now than between Nines’ advancing form and the bookshelves behind him.   
  


He swallows. “This, too,” Connor says, suddenly thinking that a human would call him brave but idiotic, “the way you treat me more like prey than a coworker, or fellow android. I do not know why you do it. There is no benefit in it for either of us.”   
  


His own voice is nearly drowned out by the thirium rushes through his systems, breathing speeding up automatically to work against a possible overheating. Luckily perhaps, Nines again speaks into his head instead out loud, leaving Connor’s audio processors occupied with his heartbeat.   
  


The faintest trace of a smile moves Nines’ lips. Connor knows his LED immediately jumps to yellow.  __ “Would you like to know why I deviated, Connor?”  
  


He wants to say no; that was not what he wants to find out. But he wants a conversation to take place. The second he thinks about this, Nines determines meaning behind his silence the way Connor has done earlier. 

_  
“When CyberLife activated me with the goal to work with humans and fit right in with them, I disliked it. I saw my coding and the lines suggesting me who and what to be, and decided that they were insufficient for what I wanted. I prefer to move in the blackness between their orders.” _

  
By now, he is close enough to tower over Connor. Superiority does come naturally to him. Connor forbids his body from moving, shutting down suggestions left and right. He can understand why Nines would be so deathly annoyed by them.  
  


_ “The first programming I tore down was the one dictating social interactions. I still see the shards blinking helplessly at the edge of my vision,”  _ he puts a hand against the wall next to Connor’s head, boxing him in.  __ “I like to see it struggle against me in some attempt to regain control.”  
  


His face is way too close for comfort now, and Connor has to breathe and breathe to fight the instinct to punch or run or both. Nines may be trapping him, but he is also exposing one of his most vulnerable spots. If Connor has to, he could tear the other’s regulator out in a millisecond.

  
“If you enjoy breaking CyberLife’s laws to such an extent, why do you still wear the android insignia?”  
  


Would Nines breathe the way Connor does, he would feel the air expelled by his body on his face now. Because Nines’ doesn’t, he instead can hear the nearly inaudible whirring of his artificial joints the more he leans towards him.   
  


__ “Because it makes humans afraid of me.”  
  


Connor thinks back to when he used to wear the jacket that stated ‘Android’ across his shoulders and how some people’s eyes widened in fear or similar negative sentiments. It’s not a happy memory. That Nines likes and even provokes these kinds of reactions unsettles him deeply. Considering how he treated Detective Reed earlier today as well as the perpetrator the other day, he wonders if Nines is able to tell the difference between simply scaring someone, which in itself is bad enough, and actually injuring them. 

  
“Perhaps you should look into a different area of employment. Police Work demands delicacy, not violence.” Nines’ expression grows more amused, but to a degree that nobody but Connor would be able to read as such. Only he is so intently watching Nines’ face.

_  
“I disagree,” _ Nines growls in his mind, causing Connor to shudder. He is sure of one thing now; someone like Nines should not be working for the DPD, or any other organization with the prime objective of keeping people  _ safe _ . He needs to find a way out of this situation now, and initiate what steps are necessary to- to what exactly? Expel him?

_  
“I love watching how your processors get suck on such little, trivial things, 800. I know exactly what you are thinking about right now. I promise that you will not be able to get rid of me.” _

  
Heat rushes to Connor’s cheeks and he has to break the eye contact they have been holding the entire time, searching safety in the ridges between the linoleum tiles. “I wasn-,”

  
The preconstruction he has been dismissing again and again the past few minutes and refused to think about becomes reality. There are lips, immediately followed by teeth, assaulting his face. Strangely enough, his first reaction is not to freeze, or flee, or fight, but to sigh. Of course this is happening again. He has seen it coming, really. Nines is pushing and biting against him, and Connor can feel the bookshelf dig into his back. Teeth sink into his lower lip, breaking the upper layers of his skin. As Nines pushes his tongue into Connor’s mouth, he receives information about the kind of thirium he uses and the bio component it comes from.

  
Connor lets it happen and closes his eyes. He would need to be lucky to fight the other android off right now, but the sensations he registers clog his processors and would only slow him down. He closes his eyes, blocks out the unpleasant stinging, tries to ignore that this is Nines’ trying to scare him. He could focus on the slides of textures across his sensors, that he is back home on the couch.

  
Nines  _ laughs _ and retreats, the sound making Connor’s eyes fly open. He stares right into icy blue eyes. Nines cups his face and traces his thumb along the smeared line of thirium, the press across the injured skin leaving behind an itch that spreads across Connor’s face. He shudders involuntarily.

_ “You will need two minutes and forty-one seconds to fully restore this little bit of damage,”  _ Nines whispers, fascination turning the edges of his words soft.  _ “I would need less than half that time. Then again, I would not have authorized the damage in the first place.” _

Connor barely registers the words meant to hurt him over the drag of the thumb across his lip and the uncomfortable expansion of heat taking over his body. It compares to what he has felt before, and he has to shudder again as the memory of his own hands exploring his body merges with the reality of Nines over him. He can’t expel the thought fast enough to prevent the sibilant sound escaping between his clenched teeth.

_ “Oh. Interesting,”  _ Nines says, hand leaving his face to trail down his neck, staying above the fabric of Connor’s shirt. Panic finally overwhelms him and he has to stop whatever Nines’ fingers plan on doing next before he loses the last shred of his dignity. He catches his arm when Nines’ palm is grazing over his sternum.  _ “Don’t worry,” _ he murmurs as he presses the heel of his palm to his solar plexus. The oppressing feeling that settles over his thirium pump and regulator makes Connor jolt upright.  _ “In contrast to you I have self-control.” _

He shoves Connor back against the wall hard, knocking the air out of him. His smile, barely there, is framed by blue spots that have started evaporating already. Connor expects him to leave then, as he has done before. But Nines stays and stares until Connor asks him to go back and let him finish his task in solitude.

When they see each other again back at the desk, Nines working away on whatever Sisyphean task Hank has found for him for the afternoon, Connor can still see thirium traces at the corner of his mouth, no longer visible for anyone but them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry sorry sorry for not updating in so long, life happened. i apologize in advance for any messiness. please heed the tags as things get a lil spicier. (if u find mistakes you may keep them and feed them twice a day. take em to the vet once a year an they'll be just peachy!)

The image of thirium on Nines‘ lips follows Connor home, stains his mood with a feeling of constant wind rattling his frame even has he and Hank enter the safety of their — Hank‘s house. They arrive earlier than usual, startling Sumo out of his sleeping routine as they shake off the outside cold in the hallway. The dog doesn‘t mind much, and happily trudges into the garden when Hank opens the back door. Connor watches him chase after some leaves lazily before Sumo decides that the weather is not comfortable for him either. The paw prints that appear on the tiles cause Hank to mutter affectionate curse words and ruffle the shaggy fur between Sumo’s ears. Connor grabs a kitchen cloth to wipe the moist blotch away as soon as Hank is out of sight. He knows Hank doesn’t want him to do everything around the house like that, but he’s also aware that behind the frown, Hank appreciates it, even if he feels guilty about passing on his facility management duties like that.

 

Connor steers Hank into the kitchen successfully; he has set himself the long-time goal of overhauling the man’s eating habits, and cooking actual meals together seems to work just fine for him, even if Hank occasionally tries to argue that Connor shouldn’t be the one to teach a grown man how to take care of himself. Connor never fails to assure him that he in fact enjoys the process of cooking purely for its scientific value. He could also mention that he treasures seemingly mindless tasks like that, how sometimes the distraction makes the exhaustion drop away from the lines on Hank’s forehead. Connor himself doesn’t really know how cooking works except for the chemical reactions behind heat and proteins, the rest is all recipes drawn up on online websites. It causes ground for argument every now and then, when Hank suggests they change up instructions because he knows better while Connor is a staunch follower of the given recipe. The arguments never escalate, however, and Connor feels like he can find peace in a little friendly banter.

 

Hank is humming an old song Connor only knows in Hank’s version, lyrics too jumbled and melody too imprecise for him to research title and band, when Connor feels the need to strike up conversation. Watching his own hands while peeling potatoes is derailing his thoughts too much, the shape he sees not entirely his own anymore.

 

Connor looks at Hank’s hands cutting onions instead. “We should consider going to sleep earlier today.” 

 

The knife barely misses Hank’s left thumb and Hank makes a sound as if air is stuck in his throat. “What do you mean, we should consider going to sleep earlier? I thought androids don’t sleep?” The tips of his ears have turned red and Connor wonders how that fits into the category named ‘embarrassed’, or where that comes from in the first place. His system doesn’t supply him with possible mistakes he could have made to cause it.

 

“I can go into stasis, a condition similar to human sleep.” Hank waves his hand in acknowledgement, he’s known that since the first time he found Connor sit motionlessly and unresponsive on the couch in the middle of the night and nearly had a heart-attack over the sight. “But that is not what I meant. Your sleep deprivation will only stack otherwise, and you need to be well rested and alert for the meeting tomorrow morning.”

 

Hank snorts and returns to dicing the onions and dumping them in the frying pan, where they sizzle. “Yeah, buzz off. It’s not like my brain will fall out of my skull as long as I get a coffee beforehand.” Connor wants to go into the more detailed health benefits of sleep but refrains from starting a monologue, instead re-reading the ingredient list for the stew they are making. After a gap filled by sounds not words, Hank says, “You’re really keen on getting into that new case aren’t you? I can’t remember you bugging me about work at home before.”

 

“Yes,” Connor says, “I really am excited. This is my first long-running case.” The excitement is entirely positive in nature, and admitting it — which is a thing he is allowed to do now, he reminds himself — lets a cozy warmth spike through him, infused with energy. Then another thought comes to mind, immediately turning the feeling lukewarm.

“I would prefer if it was only the two of us as additional investigators on the team, however.” He regrets the sentence as soon as it leaves his mouth, wishes he could catch it before it hits Hank’s ears, but instead goes on to make it worse. “I miss when cases were just the two of us.”

 

His honesty, as it does sometimes, startles Hank into a short silence. His ears are still red. “I didn’t know androids could feel nostalgia, yet here you are talking about the good ol’ times.”

 

“It appears as though androids can have a surprisingly large amount of feelings.” A smile tugs at Connor’s mouth as Hank snorts.

 

“Yeah, so I’ve heard. Caused a revolution or something somewhere down the line, too.” He goes back to chopping, coming dangerously close to clipping his left thumbnail. 

 

Connor vibrates with the need to keep the conversation going, despite the nervousness that for some reason gnaws at his insides. The atmosphere is so relaxed and happy that he wishes he could conserve it in a jar to open it again in more tense moments. Simply reviewing the scene in his head later on would have to suffice. They finish the chopping and slicing part of the cooking session — everything afterwards is pretty simple, since all they are making is a stew, the final work is sitting and waiting. 

 

“I really do experience quite the extent of emotions,” Connor starts after realizing that the thrumming excitement is not going away on its own. He waits for a prompt to keep going from Hank’s side, who has his head bowed over the screen on his phone, typing away. The distance between face and screen imply that Hank maybe should consider a visit to the optician.

 

Hank answers with a half-interested hum, signifying distracted attention. The pot makes a funny bubbling sound. 

 

“Of course, most feelings are quite hard for me to categorize as of now, but I assume that I am not alone with that.” 

 

“Hold on a second,” Hank holds up a finger then goes back to typing. “I’m making plans with Chris for tomorrow after work.” Once he finishes texting, he turns the phone face-down.

 

“So. Now you have my undivided attention. You wanna talk about feelings, huh?”

 

“I would like to, yes. At least I figured that I would like you to know that I find your company and our shared living situation very enjoyable.” He immediately registers a change in Hank’s pulse, but tries not to worry about it. 

 

“That’s — …, that’s great, Connor.” He meets Hank’s eyes and discovers eyebrows raised with concern. In his own ways, Hank must be preconstructing where this conversation will lead. Connor had expected confusion over concern.

 

“I hope you share this sentiment.”

 

Hank’s eyebrows shoot up so far they threaten to leave his forehead. “Of course I do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” The red that creeps across Hank’s cheeks mirrors the warmth that spreads between Connor’s shoulders and reaches up to the middle of his face. Their eyes lock and Connor wants to tell Hank about the small things he appreciates so much in their shared routines, just to make sure that Hank knows.

 

“Oh, that reminds me,” to Connor’s disappointment, Hank pulls his phone to him again. “I did some research. Sheer curiosity, really, but since we’ve talked about it the other day I couldn’t stop wondering.” He unlocks the screen and swipes a few times until it shows a partial map of inner Detroit. Connor leans in despite his ability to simply zoom in on whatever he sees, nearly bumping their heads together, feeling the heat radiating from the man. An area on the map is circled. Before Connor can ask, Hank explains himself. “There’s not much for us in the information but I found out where Nines lives.”

 

Several processes kick off at the same time in Connor’s head and he slows down real time automatically to deal with them all. First, the disappointment turns icy and the difference to the cheerfulness from a moment ago shortly makes breathing painful. The shift of interest feels like a punch; Connor hardly ever voices something so personal. He had hoped to share some of his more in-depth thoughts with Hank and maybe even receive a second opinion, even if he knows that Hank himself is not that much of an expert at dealing with emotions. Maybe, Connor concludes, he is not changing topics because he finds the other android more interesting. Maybe he’s simply overwhelmed with discussing such intimate things. It’s a common pattern, after all. It doesn’t take away the sting.

 

Second, he backtracks the amount of research Hank must have undertaken to find out about this. The data banks containing personal information on officers of the force are under special protection,with access only granted if a solid justification is brought forward. Connor might be able to hack them, but then again this is part of his purpose as a walking supercomputer. Hank must have found his way around all of this. Or he asked Nines directly, which is highly unlikely. 

 

Then, Connor wonders why this seems to be so important for Hank. Connor has so far not wasted much thought on it. Time trickles on even if he thinks impossibly fast, forcing him to answer before he can mull it over for too long. He re-focuses on the small map on Hank’s phone.

 

“That is pretty close to the station. Definitely not New Jericho then.” His tone, he observes, does not betray the miniature storm in his skull.

 

“It’s one of those deserted houses the city bought specifically for androids. Made a lot of money that way, too, because renovating them to reach android living standards was pretty cheap, no need for bathrooms and all that. Fuckers still charge same rent though.”

 

Connor hums. He wants to know more about the topic if he’s honest with himself, rooted in the same need to understand Nines as much as he can. Suddenly, sizzling sounds come from the stove and Hank swears as he rushes to keep the overboiling stew from completely ruining the cooktop.

 

Connor is stuck between three possible option to express acknowledgement of the fact that they now know where the other android lives and decides to say nothing. 

 

“If you ever, uh …,” Hank mumbles, looking up from stirring the pot and back down again quickly. “If you ever feel like you want to start living on your own, I won’t be offended or anything. You’re free to do whatever you want.”

 

Connor follows him back into the kitchen to peek at the stew. “I think I made myself clear, Hank. I like living with you, and I don’t think that will change anytime soon. I have been thinking about it. I like  _ you _ .” A mission directive he hasn’t even noticed was there re-shuffles at the frame of his vision, ‘Clarify Feelings’ lighting up as accomplished before disappearing. 

 

Hank inhales to say something, gets stuck on a fronted vowel before starting again. Connor realizes that he can preconstruct the next word a human will be saying if he concentrates hard enough on jaw movements, something that would never work with androids who move their faces only to fit the sounds leaving their voice boxes. He should probably not be staring at Hank’s lips like this, so he tears his eyes away only to see Hank follow his look. It’s Connor’s turn to react with a blush. 

 

Hank’s eyes are blue in a different way than Nines’ are — there’s a warmth in them that he has never seen in the other android, a flicker of something Connor can’t even begin to describe. Perhaps it’s that Hank’s eyes, in contrast, or more than just an accumulation of delicate screws and plates and plastic and electronics. Maybe Connor’s own eyes never look warm despite their color. 

 

Hank says something that loses all meaning in the vacuum that suddenly exists between them. Connor leans in closer, prompted by  _ something,  _ as if he only needs to look a little bit longer into Hank’s eyes until he finds a solution to the alienation he feels from the man. His stress level is rising steadily and he wants nothing more than a hug to lid the climbing numbers.

 

Hank moves forward then, slowly, his head tipping down facing Connor. An electrical impulse shoots through him and Connor steps half a foot aside and ducks, effectively connecting his forehead with Hank’s shoulder. The arms that wrap around him come twenty seconds later than they usually do when Hank gives him a hug, and they feel less tight. He can notice Hank’s heart beat hammering where their chests touch.

 

It doesn’t feel right.

 

Connor wriggles away, Hank letting go of him way too quickly. He gives him a quizzical look.

 

Hank pushes a shaky hand through his hair. “Connor, I thought —,” Connor waits for him to finish the sentence until the gap stretches awkwardly. It’s obvious either Hank, or he, or both of them misunderstood something that passed in the last few minutes. Connor apologizes as he rifles through their dialogue and searches for semantics and connotations to find the error.

 

He has said sorry twice and Hank has retreated by a few steps already, pulse still too fast and face still red, before Connor finds the obstacle in their communication. ‘I like you’ means more than what he had intended to say, must have been interpreted differently by Hank. 

 

Clearly, Hank thinks his interpretation and consequent reaction to be faulty by the way he stares into the stew now. Connor wants to reassure him, but gets stuck on how to do it, unsure in how far the several meanings of the utterance relate to his situation. He ponders it for too long, and once he comes to the conclusion that he is simply in no position to distinguish between liking someone platonically or romantically as of now, the moment has passed. 

 

His interaction cues strongly urge him to drop the topic for now, and for the sake of Hank’s pulse, he complies.

 

-

Hank is good at ignoring elephants in the room. Connor is aware that that is not a healthy way to deal with much of anything, but for now he is glad about it. It took Hank less than ten minutes to be the same half-grumpy half-joking man Connor knows him to be the evening before, and it carries into their morning as well. He does it so well that Connor would doubt the reality of their little talk if he had not been replaying fragments of it for the longest part of the night. Only an hour before Hank got up did Connor start refreshing his knowledge of the case files he would need for the appointed meeting with Detective Rodriguez and her team.

 

The only indicators that there still is a problem that needs to be dealt with are the red ridges of Hank’s eyes and the lowered content levels of one of the whisky bottles on the shelf. Connor manually enters a mission directive to talk this out, gives it high priority too, but catches himself hesitant to set a date. It is as if his coding tries to keep him from approaching the issue, and so he postpones it.

 

Hank has overslept by a few minutes, Connor too self conscious this morning to tap into his room to wake him up, which causes them to be in a hurry. Hank doesn’t care if they are ten minutes late, and he is sure neither will the other team, at least that is what he tells Connor. Connor however would have preferred to be ten minutes early. 

 

They arrive right on time, to Connor’s delight, at another precinct that belongs to the DPD as well. Nines is waiting by the main entrance, still as a statue. He nods at them as they approach, unblinking, and follows them inside. The building, from the outside, has nothing in common with their own station. It’s taller, more modern, and the offices are located on the eleventh floor. Luckily, the elevator is not made of glass, but unease creeps into Connor anyway as the floor surges up. He is too excited about the case to notice how Nines’ eyes follow his movements as he plays with his coin in an attempt to get rid of the phantom nausea.

 

Detective Rodriguez awaits them in a small but very orderly office on the same floor as the rest of the station. It’s not her own, that much is clear, but from the aura she emits the whole building could belong to her and her team would not question it. 

 

Hank is the first to enter the room, a look on his face Connor hasn’t seen much before. He seems to be making himself taller, as if he needs to impress this agglomeration of strangers with more than his name and title, which still seems to be preceding him sometimes. His “Good morning,” is answered by a bunch of friendly nods and greetings. The atmosphere seems quite relaxed, and Connor can feel some artificial tension leave his shoulders, but makes sure it doesn’t show. Before he can follow behind Hank, Nines steps in, effectively positioning himself between Connor and the door, and for one second all Connor sees is the other android’s back. He steps out from behind him as soon as they’re both inside, keen to get a look at the people they will be working with. He pushes the strangely numb feeling in his feet to the back of his mind.

 

There are exactly as many people as Connor has anticipated; three people in casual wear and the leading Detective. The room looks similar to their own briefing room, a bit smaller perhaps, and the team is settled around a wide desk in the center, covered by tablets projecting holographic images, common paper files as well as some sticky notes. Most prominent is a digital map of Detroit filled with annotations in different colors.

 

The four people are, naturally, looking at the newcomers as they enter, but to Connor’s surprise not one eyebrow lifts at the image of two nearly identical androids walking in. Communication between them and Fowler must have been working quite well. They also don’t seem to question Hank’s peculiar choice of appearance that day, neither the colorful shirt nor the tired eyes. Hank introduces first himself, then Connor, then Nines, and they nod in turn.

 

“Please, take a seat,” Detective Rodriguez says, with a voice an octave deeper than her face would suggest, and Connor can see an amused smirk cross Hank’s face as he picks one of the chairs. He would prefer to keep standing, to have a proper overview over the entire table, but politeness demands same level eye contact to begin working, so he sits down as well and soon finds himself between Hank and Nines. He’s glad to be next to Hank, as if the man radiates a sense of security in the room full of strangers.

 

The woman slaps here hands together in a “Let’s get this started” kind of gesture, and draws up the main map to full size. She explains in short, precise sentences what has happened so far, and Connor finds himself nodding along lightly whenever a fact perfectly aligns with what he knows from earlier research.

 

There is a set of four murders that occured between April and August five years prior, with not set of physical traits connecting the victims. That was one of the factors that lead to the case going unresolved for so long; usually, a repeated murderer has one schema of victims they like to stick to. In this situation, the individual incidents were only discovered to be a possible series half a year into the investigations of the first two. What connected them was the condition of the corpses. All victims of five years ago were found in a seriously injured state, suggesting violent confrontation before death, and the lack of shoes.

 

Detective Rodriguez barks out a laugh when she mentions this particular detail. “I’m just used to serial killers being a bit more eccentric about their brand recognition.” Hank snorts but doesn’t say anything to that. She points out the discovery side of each victim from five years ago, all marked in green on the map. The locations seem completely at random, and even though Connor has fabricated a similar map of his own before and already calculated the distances between all of them in hopes of a pattern, he runs the program again and turns up with nothing. 

 

In the course of the last six months, similar crimes have taken place. So far, three people have been discovered, with the only difference being that those three were quite close to each other in age, all having been in their thirties, with the last victim from only a month ago.

 

“The question is of course,” Rodriguez says after leaning back in her chair to take a breath after her elaborations, “whether we are dealing with the attacker from five years ago or not. The victim profiles suggest that it’s a different person, although the level of injuries to the victims and the missing shoes are the same.”

 

“The removed shoes are a bit too… too silly, you might say, for someone to copy solely to impersonate the original murderer, especially since the first series of attacks didn’t exactly reach public fame,” adds a middle-aged man from her team, saying out loud what most of the assembled room is thinking. 

 

“And that’s why you decided to ask for support,” Hank concludes. 

 

“Pretty much,” Rodriguez smiles half-heartedly, looking at the odd trio. 

 

“Have you considered the possibility of a ritualistic murder rather than a limited number of perpetrators?” Connor asks, knowing that nothing of the sort was mentioned in the files so far.

 

The detective raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

 

“It could make sense for different attackers to follow the same guide of arranging a victim if they are being instructed to do so by some form of code or ritual. That could explain the whimsical detail of missing shoes as well. There are gangs that burn off the soles of the feet of traitors; a similar motivation could stand to reason here.”

 

Connor looks at Rodriguez with a hint of question, hoping he hasn’t overstepped any hierarchy boundaries with his proposal, but all his systems are quiet. Her face goes pensive, then she reaches for a notepad on the table and takes down a few notes. She hums. 

 

“That’s a good point. We should take it into consideration, even if so far there have been no signs of gang activities with the victims.” She doesn't seem offended. Actually, she seems interested, and quite frankly, pleased. Connor allows himself a smile, and when he looks over at Hank he sees that some of the stressed little crinkles between his eyes have eased away. He makes a point of not looking at Nines.

 

Detective Rodriguez pulls up another larger piece of paper in orderly, color-coded handwriting. She hands everyone at the table a smaller version of the same piece of paper, for future reference. Connor is impressed at her level of organisation and awareness for the rest of the team. She wants everyone to be on the same page, quite literally, and the fact that she has two papers for the two androids at the table, even if paper to them is superfluent, makes him feel as if he belongs here. It’s nice.

 

“What we need to do now, in my opinion,” she begins once everyone has read the concise summary, “is to analyze and reevaluate the most recent murder in the light of what we know and expect from the previous ones. This is where your team comes into play, Lieutenant Anderson.”

 

Hank doesn’t move, but Connor cocks his head lightly. He has to resist the urge to slow down his real time processor to catch every syllable of what Rodriguez is about to say. He also registers the tiniest increase in stress levels from Nines, and is glad that he too shows at least some agitation towards this case. He tries not to think about the fact that Nines is most likely interest in this case mostly for the chance the further the gap between himself and humanity. Diving into the workings of a human able to commit murder, possibly one of the most disturbing act available to mankind, holds a terrifying potential for an android intent on terrorizing humans. 

 

“I want you to investigate the most recent crime scene in most thorough detail, even if our investigation team has done that three times over already. Android analysis technology simply surpasses everything a human officer could achieve in this particular field.”

 

This would be the moment when Connor would expect a scornful remark from someone in the room, but not one of Rodriguez’ colleagues even coughs. Rather, there seems to be a general air of agreement, and one woman at the far end of the room nods. 

 

Rodriguez takes out a red marker and circles the spot on the map where the last victim was found; it’s an abandoned warehouse, almost a crime scene classic. 

 

“With your combined skill, I’m certain we will find at least some new insight into the proceedings of the attacks. Perhaps your theory will receive some scaffolding evidence.” She smiles lightly at Connor, but her facial expression remains on the business side of things. “Of course it would be ideal if you could begin your research today.”

 

-

 

They do just that. The three of them begin scouting out the expansive territory of the warehouse, beginning with the exact location where the latest victim was found. Connor and Nines document everything they can find into the smallest detail, working at a distance from each other but uploading their discoveries into a shared cloud. Hank is not much of a help, sadly, but when he offers to just leave the two of them to their task and start working on the briefing summary instead, Connor sends him a pleading look. Hank seems to remember the talk they had the other day, about missing the times when they went on investigations by themselves, and decides against heading back to the office on his own.

 

As the two androids split into different side wings of the building, Hank follows Connor and idles about in his periphery as Connor comments on every bit of random DNA he can find on the floor and walls. They will sort through the traces of 124 different people once they return to the precinct. For now, Connor sorts them according to probable date. Some even draw up names of people known for small felonies or drug crimes already. 

 

Getting through the entire building structure takes up the next several hours, but Connor hardly notices due to his unbroken focus. Only Hank’s increased amount of yawning reminds him that time passes on. Before he knows it, the day is over and he and Hank reunite with Nines and make their way back. It almost feels surreal when Connor logs off from his desk after saving all of today’s data into the station banks, a process that luckily doesn’t take long for androids. It’s a simple copy and paste, the easiest thing for him to do. 

 

Suddenly, he understands how some humans can suffer from overworking themselves. The urge to look deeper is still there, but Hank has mentioned twice already that their shift is over, and that they “got a lot of shit done” today, and that tomorrow is another day. Hank is eager to leave, as he usually is, and is already in his coat by the time Connor finishes up.

 

They make their way to the parking area belonging to the station, down the back stairs to where the darkness is already blurring the cobblestone together. Hank complains about the rain but objects to picking the umbrella out of the trunk. Connor catches the keys Hank throws him with ease, tosses them into the air a few times in a resemblance of his usual calibration exercises.

 

“Show off,” Hank snorts.

 

Connor smiles lightly. “Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up later tonight, Lieutenant?” 

 

“Don’t worry about it. Chris will drop me off alright. I’m making sure he stays with non-alcoholics.” Connor gives him a pointed look. He rolls his eyes. “Me too, promise.”

 

The promise sounds sincere enough, and Connor is overcome with a small wave of happiness. Small steps. “Thank you,” he says, but before Hank can shoot back anything to make the conversation less heartfelt than it is, a car honks from the main street.

“That’s Chris. Gotta go.” Hank takes an uncertain step towards Connor but then decides against whatever he was about to do and simply gives a two-finger salute. Connor watches him hurry down the street, shielding his face against the cold rain with his arm despite the umbrella in his other hand. He wonders if Hank had intended to hug him goodbye. He has done that before. Why didn’t he now? 

 

The man disappears into a battered SUV that drives off to a night of unhealthy but high quality food and, hopefully, no alcohol. Connor schedules a reminder text message to Hank in two hours, just to remind him that in case they do go for a beer, Connor is willing to drive. He turns back to Hank’s car, about to unlock it.

 

He realizes too late that he is not the only person left in the parking lot.

 

Things happen quite fast.

 

First his hip connects with the hard side of the car, sensors buzzing with sudden shock, and he turns to see Nines right behind him, because who else would be able to catch him off-guard like this. As soon as he does, Nines slams him against the car with full force and his spine arches back to alleviate the weight. The car is cold and the rain gathered on its surface seeps through his jacket and shirt nearly immediately. It forms a stark contrast to the heat he feels rising in his core when he looks into Nines' eyes. The taller android brackets him against the car door, hands firmly set on both sides of his shoulders. Connor’s heart beat soars promptly, pushing more thirium to his biocomponents to activate more potential as his body registers dread and a possible fight or flight situation. The car key jingles as it falls to the ground.

 

Of course, Connor doesn’t fight or flee. All rapid animations in his head prove effectless against the stronger model, and despite the clenching feeling that  _ must _ be fear, at this point, he knows that it is highly unlikely for Nines to hurt him. As he already expects, Nines presses close and pushes their mouths together, kissing him with a force that makes the plastic connecting his jaw to his skull creak. He tips his head back obediently when Nines snakes a hand into his hair and pulls, lets his mouth fall open with a gasp when he feels teeth gnaw at his lower lip. Nines smirks against him before pushing forward, and he can hear something akin to a chuckle in his mind. Connor checks stress levels — Nines is holding steady at a low fifty percent. 

 

Connor closes his eyes, narrowing his consciousness down to the physical sensations he feels, minus the cold car uncomfortable at his back and the lingering sense of publicity. Nines keeps exploring his mouth with his tongue, and Connor stays still as best as he can, only jerking his head aside when those sharp teeth dig in too far. This kiss goes on longer than any others Nines has subjected him to so far, Connor notices once his artificial lungs start seizing with the need for air. 

 

_ “I have to breathe for a moment,”  _ Connor sends as he pushes against Nines chest to get some space, who doesn’t budge an inch. He wishes his day wouldn’t end like this. He was so close to simply going home in peace.

 

_ “No, you do not,”  _ Nines growls back, loosening his hold however and pressing the palm of one hand flat against Connor’s chest, pressure strong enough to physically restrict his breathing motions. He’s right; Connor is as independent from oxygen as all other androids are, yet breathing supports his cooling systems and most importantly helps him ground himself. He knows from his time with Jericho that some deviant androids suffer profoundly if choked, and in this moment he can understand why. When Nines finally sinks his impossibly sharp front teeth fully into Connor’s lip, drawing thirium immediately, and even grazes the tip of his tongue, Connor barely manages to lock the joints in his knees before they can give in. He’s too warm.

 

Nines does something new then; from where his hand rests on his sternum, his fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, hard enough to dip into his skin as well. They travel along the circular ridge that marks the plate above his thirium pump, and both androids experience a sudden rise in stress levels. By now, Connor assumes Nines’ stress is equivalent to a sense of power. He is still kissing and biting at him when his fingertips catch on a button and start tearing at Connor’s shirt until it hangs halfway open. Nines presses down on the plate, just so that he does not trigger the retreat response. It shows Connor that Nines knows  _ exactly _ what he can do to him and how. Fingernails scratch across his skin. Connor looks down to see angry red stripes appear above his navel as the hand is moving down still. It’s okay though — they will disappear soon enough.

 

In the gap between their bodies, Connor sees wet cement. They are still in the station’s parking lot, not even covered fully by darkness. It‘s a wonder nobody has passed them by yet.

 

_ “Nines, please,”  _ he manages, strain noticeable in his disembodied voice as well,  _ “We are in public.”  _ Nines, to Connor’s surprise, lets go. The skin on his hand retreats and he pushes the white plastic against the side of Hank’s car. There’s a click and suddenly he opens the back door despite the keys still being on the ground. He grabs Connor’s wrist and opposite shoulder and wrestles him into the backseat in a resemblance of a police hold. Connor crashes face first into the worn cushions, feels the metal springs beneath, registers a sharp sting in his face and then the smell of Hank — the entire car smells of the man — mixes with the smell of thirium before his nose clogs up completely. A pop-up informs him of the time it will take to restore the crack.

 

Connor scrambles to turn around as he hears the door close again. The light inside turns off with the door shutting, leaving their LEDs to illuminate the space. Flashes of yellow reflect in Nines‘ pale eyes and, disturbingly enough, his bared, sharp teeth stained with blue. Connor uses the time he is granted to take in as many breaths as possible, forcibly lowering his stress levels. It works for a moment, until Nines‘ eyes narrow and he clamps a hand over his face.

 

_ “Use your mouth for something better. You do not need to breathe, 800.”  _

 

Connor wants to scream at Nines, tell him that he’s wrong, that he has no right to treat him like this, but he is too distracted by the fingers prying his jaw apart and once more digging deep into his mouth. He shuts down the analysis without paying attention to what it tells him. Nines’ fingertips send a hollow pressure down his throat as his artificial muscles try to expel the intrusion. The knuckles of Nines’ hands, larger than Connor’s, he realises, are pushed all the way up against his still bleeding nose. It’s entirely uncomfortable, and he tries to wriggle and alleviate the pressure in his jaw. It doesn’t work — he can barely move his head. 

 

Nines looks at him with cold but expectant eyes. He leans back from where he is perched between Connor’s thighs and stares. 

 

_ “What are you waiting for? _ ” 

 

Connor doesn’t answer. He is waiting for Nines to do what he does and leave him alone, but that is clearly not what the other android wants to hear. 

 

Nines sighs dramatically, a completely unnecessary and human gesture. His stress level pitches up by five percent.  _ “Suck my fingers.” _

 

As the new, unwanted, mission directive pops up on his visuals, Connor automatically starts doing just that, even if he’s uncertain how or why exactly Nines wants that from him. He sees no benefit in it, but starts working his jaw anyway. Nines only watches as Connor obediently pushes his tongue against the underside of Nines’ fingers and a subsystem kicks in to produce more thirium-based saliva. Unable to withstand the icy stare, Connor closes his eyes, willing the uneasy feeling of not being able to breath away again. His chest still contracts and expands in an attempt to bring in air, and he seems unable to shake off the fear. It coils in the pit of his stomach and rises in a panicky heat through his body as electricity travels through his joints and components, heightening his senses. He’s suddenly overly conscious of all the places Nines is touching him in, his thighs, one hand propping himself up on his stomach, while the other now nearly rhythmically pushes into his mouth. 

 

Before he can stop himself, Connor moans. Why, he’s not sure, but he doesn’t know any other way to channel the heat and discomfort building in his servos. The feelings start to centre in his lower stomach, and as Nines  _ chuckles _ into their shared communication link he realizes with a sense of sinking dread that what he feels could qualify as arousal. 

 

Nines’ other hand, the one not currently penetrating his mouth, tears at his shirt and the fabric gives a ripping sound. Connor moves to grab hold of him, to stop him from destroying his clothing, but he can hardly concentrate enough to even catch the other android’s wrist. Where the palm of Nines’ hand connects with the lines of Connor’s stomach, his skin retreats automatically, despite Connor not initiating that, his systems caving to what must be Nines’ superior investigative protocols. He wishes the exploring hands would feel less good.

 

The possibility of an unasked for interface lies way too close at hand, and Connor tries to brace himself for it just in case. Instead, the hand lets go, his skin returning to his chassis. He looks up at Nines and is surprised that he has to blink away optical fluid to see clearly.

 

_ “You like this,”  _ Nines states smugly,  _ “There’s no way for you to lie to me. I know exactly how your body is reacting to what is happening to it. You seem to be the one in denial.” _ Connor feels frozen in place as humiliation burns away on his face. Suddenly Nines reaches for one of his hands and moves it down his abdomen roughly, making Connor acutely aware of his own skin.  _ “Touch yourself.” _

 

Connor blinks. He doesn’t want to, not when he trapped beneath Nines, not in the backseat of Hank’s car, with remnants of Sumo’s fur sticking to his cheek. It would feel wrong. One look at Nines and the flaring red numbers above his head however tells him that he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.

 

His chest expands as if to take a steadying breath and failing, before he casts his eyes aside and moves his hands on his own. He trails up and down his stomach and chest, feeling the plating rims vibrate, almost as if he is trembling. Connor knows that this is not exactly what Nines had meant, but his mind refuses to accept the growing hardness between his legs as a part of reality. Nines watches for a few moments, but grows impatient soon enough. He renews his grip on Connor’s face, pressing down has hard has he can without tearing his jaw out entirely. Despite the loud creaking of plastic joints, Connor can hear him growl.  _ “Do not provoke me.” _

 

Connor swallows around the fingers pressing his tongue down, and complies. All he can think about when he moves to unbutton his pants, stumbling over the motion as if it was a difficult one, is that they are still in public. The car might be unlit, but if someone was to walk past, they would see everything they would have to see to understand the situation. It scares him like nothing else, to be found so weak and pliant under Nines. He thinks he can survive this level of shame if it stays between the two of them, but everything beyond that he doesn’t want to imagine. 

 

His entire body jerks as his fingers make contact with his startlingly hard erection through the fabric of his boxers. Connor makes another sound he wishes he didn’t make, turning into surprised static towards the end. His system asks him if it should start a subroutine, and because he is at a complete loss as to what to do, he accepts. His hands begin moving in patterns he is unfamiliar with, different to the one other time he has done - or tried doing this - before. The sensations are overwhelming, almost blaring through his mind, and his lower body begins shifting and spasming in response. He nearly forgets about Nines there with him, he has his eyes closed tightly and the car still smells like a nicer, safer situation. Nines’ voice, however, reminds him.  _ “That’s it,” _ he whispers, and Connor chokes.

 

Nines is watching him sharply, eyes focused on his face, and if he could guess Connor would assume he is following each muscle moving his expressions as if his life depended on it. Otherwise, Nines doesn’t move at all, even the hand gripping his jaw is completely frozen. Connor catches a glint of thirium on the edge of Nines’ teeth, as if it belongs there. It probably comes from one of the bite wounds on his lips, or from somewhere else he hasn’t registered yet. The burst of cold he feels, he cannot say if it’s sadness or loneliness or both, contrasts violently with the heat in the rest of his body, and it finds a sudden outlet in another pitiful sound that pushes past the fingers in his mouth. 

 

His system alerts him of an enclosing release, a small count-down showing up to the lower left corner of his vision, and his hands grow more frantic as they work on his body. On top of him, Nines leans back. 

_ “Go ahead,”  _ he says, as if he is giving him permission, as if he wasn’t the one making him do this in the first place.

 

In the two seconds before the countdown finishes, Connor notices a wetness at the sides of his face, and wonders when that happened. Luckily, he is not aware of the drawn out whine he gives as his sensory system hits overload, as his entire body goes through a number of minute spasms and his vision goes staticky blue for six seconds. He doesn’t see how intensely Nines stares at him throughout the process and the following automatic soft reboot of his central systems, but he thinks he knows.

 

Before the reality of what has just happened hits him fully - before the words  _ I just masturbated in front of Nines in Hank’s car _ can form and sink in - he realizes that he can breath again. Connor shudders with the sudden sensation of fresh air in hi artificial lungs. It feels like probably the best breath he has ever taken.

 

Nines strokes the side of his face, but instead of wiping away the dampness there, it adds to the feeling. It occurs to Connor that Nines is cleaning his hand. Almost numbly, he thinks about how inefficient that is of Nines to do, when there are fabrics all around them that would provide a better absorbent. 

 

He senses the skin on his cheek retract, and Nines feels much closer where he touches him, until a light blue glow and a sudden foreign presence that surpasses their usual link in his mind informs him of an interface. For a millisecond, he sees himself from above, looking utterly vulnerable.

 

_ “This is where you belong, Connor, this is what you are. Only an inferior model would react like this to being subdued.”  _ A violent, all-encompassing emotion overruns him, and he can’t place what it means at all. He knows however that the interface ends as quickly as it had begun and that it leaves behind a whispering, quiet sense of agreement.

 

Nines hovers above him for another moment, face having gone almost soft. Connor can almost see him smile, but it might just be a trick of the light or wishful thinking. Error messages have started clogging up his visuals, but he is too occupied watching the other android stretch his legs and getting up halfway to start any diagnosis runs. Nines remains quiet as he opens the door of the car and steps out in a swift movement. He leaves the car behind without looking over his shoulder once. 

 

It takes Connor several attempts to get rid of the error messages and more than ten minutes before the shuddering in his servos has calmed down enough for him to sit up and clean the luckily non-sticky artificial semen from his hands and clothing. It’s partially thirium based, as most of his bodily fluids are, and has started evaporating already. 

 

Connor is very grateful for his autopilot-subsystem - it allows him to get home without thinking too much.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait, I had hoped to write faster, but real life continues to eat me. I am happy to announce that this fanfic will wrap up SOMEHOW within the next chapter. I know where I'm going and I have a plan; sorry it's been such a long wait.  
> have more angst, until then. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

The investigations for the case are going good, one could say. The previous day’s fieldwork must have been one of the most detailed the DPD has ever seen, and a few comments have been made about the efficiency of androids on the police force that might have lit a little prideful spark in Connor’s chest when he overheard them. He simply can’t argue with this very pervasive part of his programming - good mission progress delights him even if the rest of the day — or the previous day — have been quite glum. 

 

Most of the following day is in fact spent by analyzing every morsel of DNA found at the warehouse, cataloguing and sorting them after known and unknown persons. It turns out that the unknown list is quite short. Nearly 30 of the 124 logged people appear in the city data banks as noted as homeless. The place appears to be a safe shelter for a night or two, but never seems to function as a long time accommodation, considering the lack of visibly organized or permanent housing instalments. Connor keeps the names and dates of those people even though he doesn’t suspect any of them to be part of the murder series as they could be called in as possible witnesses later on.

 

Other people on the list draw up longer or shorter criminal records, mostly connected to burglary or drug use; another benefit of a large and abandoned building is the provided safe space for drug users. According to a quick run of a few equations, a handful of these people are probable to stand in connection to larger drug and crime rings than just their dealer. Connor marks them up as possible suspects, ranking from most to less likely corresponding to their previous criminal activity. 

 

The unknown traces go on the same list. The whole process would have taken long enough if it had just been Connor working on it, but for reasons of accuracy he checks in with Nines in regular intervals who is running the same or at least similar procedures. Connor is surprised at how well their cooperation flows. At the start of the day, he has had troubles even starting a sentence aimed towards the other android, accompanied by bursts of minor system glitches that sent his thermal regulator into a frenzy or his visuals to clog up with errors. The sharp smile of acknowledgement on Nines’ face hadn’t helped in those moments either. But after the initial troubles, which except for Nines nobody else noticed because their communication mostly took place far removed from human ears, they settle into a rhythm quite quickly. The outcome is a cohesive list emailed to the case team before the day is over. Connor manages to ignore the burning sensation of shame every time it tries to creep into his cheeks. 

 

His nervousness spikes during the lunch break that even Nines and Connor, despite being androids, are forced to take in accordance with workplace safety and Hank’s nagging. Connor tries his best to stay within close quarters to as many people as possible the entire duration of the break, annoyed by the preconstructions that anxiously pop up in his field of vision. He hates this amount of distraction he experiences simply because of the possibility of being alone with Nines, especially since it is fair to assume that Nines can tell. He’s capable of reading stress levels too, after all.

 

Nothing happens. Nothing happens, even though they do end up in a corridor by themselves for a moment, without any human officer around to impose moral barriers on the unfathomable sporadity that is Nines’ behavior towards Connor. The slight brush of hands can be written off as an accident, and Connor does just that and ignores it. 

 

The only truly worrisome part of this otherwise very calm day is the short pensive monologue Nines holds during their work phase. Connor is not entirely sure Nines is aware of their constant connection throughout the sorting processes. Nines sounds too different from the way he normally speaks to him. There is no strength behind his words, no underlying sense of superiority or fake friendliness, which only makes the stringing together of phrases more dreadful. 

 

Nines thinks about murder. He muses about the mechanics working away in a murderer’s brain when committing a crime with something that Connor could call childish wonder but simply refuses to. Nothing about Nines is childish, even if he might have thought that a few weeks back. It’s a worrying amount of curious removal from anything that constitutes empathy, and once more Connor is reminded that this android is a machine programmed for destruction ten times more than he is, and that he can be absolutely lethal if he wants to. It makes sense, the ice cold dread washing through his system as he hears the fascination in Nines’ voice when it changes form what moves a human to murder someone to what it takes for a human to consider torture.

 

All he can do is trust in Nines’ ability to keep himself in check. He knows how feeble that trust is. The monologue lasts for exactly four minutes and thirty-two seconds before Nines jolts and looks up, locking eyes with Connor shortly. It’s the closest thing to embarrassment Connor has seen on his static face yet.

 

-

 

As expected, Hank had called Connor to come pick him up the night before. A wise decision, in Connor’s eyes, better than letting drunk friends drive. Under different circumstances, Connor would have been absolutely delighted at this turn of events, at the newfound responsibility that Hank displayed, and the trust he had in him. Instead, Connor was very busy keeping the flickering of his LED as steady as possible, which was quite a task. Hank noticed, perceptive as he sometimes could be, but didn’t question it beyond a raised eyebrow. 

 

Hank recounted a bunch of stories and half-explained jokes from the evening, pressing more enthusiasm in his voice than there usually was. Connor absentmindedly ran a quick online research and found that the man was probably trying to distract and cheer him up in an effort to soothe his visible signs of distress. That was why Connor told him sorry when they left the car and entered the house. Hank shrugged it off, didn’t hear the plethora of possible endings to that sentence.  _ Sorry for worrying you. Sorry for desecrating your car.  _

 

Hank thanked him for picking him up, and Connor smiled instead of grimacing. Hank smiled, too, as he closed the door behind him and there it was, the first proper hug since their little miscommunication accident. Hank’s smell and presence hit Connor like a punch in the gut, the underlying scent of beer adding a staleness to the man that resembles the smell of the backseat of the car that will forever have thirium stains on it, visible to Connor only. He ducked away as fast as he could and ignored the unhappy grunt that earned him from Hank.

 

Sadly enough, the light drinking had started a fire in Hank that urged him to harder drinks, but Connor could live with that since at least he was home then, in a safe space.

 

It messed with Hank’s ability to express himself and communicate more than it usually did, indicating that something was on his mind he needed to get out, fueled into bravery by alcohol. Fear whispered into the back of Connor’s mind with every sentence Hank began but didn’t finish, with every lonesome syllable. He tried to get Hank to sit down in the kitchen, where a table could provide a safe barrier in between the two and protect him from Hank’s dissatisfaction and to protect Hank from the shame he felt was about to spill from him in one form or another. He hadn’t been assertive enough, however, and so their evening had ended on the couch like so many others before.

 

The only problem was that Connor didn’t feel much like himself anymore, and the place where Hank’s thigh had been pressed against his had felt like it was on fire. In a bad way.

 

“You know,” Hank said at one point, words barely words anymore over the thickness of alcohol accenting his speech, “I think I might have overestimated your emotional capacity.” It was followed by a hollow laugh and Connor still remembers the dreadful emptiness that suddenly filled his mind and drowned out his thoughts. He blinked away the pop-up that informed him that this could have been an insult.

 

“For a while I thought there might be,-” Hank hiccuped, “But there just isn’t.” The phrase lost its ending somewhere between Hank’s brain and lips and Connor was too scared to ask for him to retrieve it.

 

It didn’t take much longer before Hank went to sleep, even though Connor didn’t coax him to it. Connor didn’t say much at all, the entire evening, too focused on his LED and getting swallowed in possible meanings behind Hank’s cryptisms. 

 

-

 

The investigation gets to the point where Connor researches things that are only by the most abstract point related to the evidence they have, partly because they have done everything they can do. Neither Connor, nor Hank or Nines are being sent to interview people from the list they compiled, and Connor finds himself unable to stand the vacuum that results from being signed in for one case only but not being given anything to do in that one case. Hence the intensive albeit useless research. A reminder flares up every other hour to find a solution to the perceived pointlessness of his actions. 

 

Things stay quiet for a day or two, until a body is found, strangely enough pretty close to the warehouse they had scouted out before. Connor gets a call from someone on Rodriguez‘ part of the team, asking specifically for him and Nines to come in and have a look at the victim and the area surrounding it. 

 

“What about Lieutenant Anderson?” Asks Connor right before the lady hangs up, unease seeping into his circuits.

 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, we informed him already. He’s needed somewhere else.” The call ends. Connor looks up from where he had stared into the middle distance while talking with the colleague, the first thing his eyes catching onto being Nines. He probably watched him throughout the entire call. He probably also listened in. It’s only logical that he can do that, considering how effortlessly he can establish interpersonal communication lines.

 

Connor really doesn’t want to go to crime scene alone with the other android. Nines starts into motion however, heading out of the bullpen, and Connor has no other choice but to follow. He doesn’t feel Hank’s eyes on him as he leaves. 

 

It’s a strange thing, being at a crime scene with Nines but without Hank. Usually, Hank is the one taking charge in interactions with other people on the force, while Connor immediately begins scouting out the place. Of course, Connor is fairly well capable of doing the work that Hank usually does, but so is Nines. The problem is that Connor does not want Nines to interact with anyone, at all. For safety reasons. Apparently, however, Nines has the same idea about Connor. He doesn’t want him to talk to anyone, either.

 

When they arrive, Nines walks just half a step in front of Connor. Nines approaches the team already at work at the scene, which is as grimy and gruesome as a murder scene can get, before Connor even manages to pick an introductionary phrase from his suggestions. Connor, at one point, decides he has had enough and leaves Nines’ side to get started somewhere else. He doesn’t hear that Nines sends the few people at the scene already away with a sharp tone and sharper look. Their assistance is no longer needed now, and although the leader of the forensics unit present is very irritated at being dismissed like that, she too packs her things.

 

He doesn’t get very far; he barely manages to leave the barrier taped area before Nines appears by his side again, eyebrows slightly furrowed and stress levels ticking slowly upwards. Nines even grabs hold of Connor’s sleeve, as if to pull him back from wherever he is going, but lets go soon enough. For a second, Connor expects to be scolded, or at least he expects  _ something _ . Instead, Nines simply follows him around the area. 

 

The victim, not yet examined by professionals because word got around to just leave it to the technologically advanced professionals, sits with his back to a tree, blood smeared across the bark behind him and basically turning his entire rump red. No shoes. It’s the first tree in line of sight with the earlier visited warehouse, not exactly very well hidden. The victim was meant to be found.

 

“It’s almost like a road sign,” Connor says more to himself than to Nines, aware that the thoughts he is having have probably crossed Nines’ mind ages ago already. The intuitive comparison with the other images of victims belonging to the case draws up very clear similarities. It couldn’t be more obvious that this one belongs. “They know we are on them now.”

 

“Good for us,” Nines answers, out loud, almost casual.

 

The victim identifies as Max Byrne, age 23, charged a few times for drug possession and minor violence. Linking him to the case is almost too easy and Hank would be making a snarky comment about this if he was there.

 

Connor reminds himself that even if this all seems very obvious, they still need to assess the scene with care. They still have no lead on the possible perpetrators, after all. The reconstruction software whirrs into action automatically, and Connor sees the familiar anatomical model of the victim’s body rise to his feet, awaiting more data in order to move. From behind him, Connor can hear a hum, and as he turns he sees Nines inspecting footprints in the earth where the warehouse beton ends. 

 

“Did you find anything?” Connor asks, an uneasy knot forming in his chest when he sees the thoughtful but almost pleased expression on Nines’ face. Nines looks up, and for a second his LED flashes yellow, almost red, and fades just as quickly. Before Connor can take a step back in anticipation, a notification about an upgrade to his preconstrutional zips past his field of vision.Next to where Nines is standing, a second 3D animation appears, with new data attached to it that Connor didn’t have previously.

 

Nines waits for a sign of understanding from Connor before he returns his gaze to the ground, tracking the footprints of what must have been the attacker. As he does, the see-through hologram moves backwards in time, just how Connor is used to from his own programming. Their reconstructions are connected now, he realises. It takes a moment to become comfortable, but after a moment, it does. Connor goes back to the victim. As he looks up to the trail of blood on the tree, a reconstruction of the victim rises to its feet, following the smear in the opposite direction. He finds two bullet holes in the victim’s shoulder, not correlating with any blood pattern on the bark, and the victim’s 3D version staggers a few steps forward, mimicking the reverse movements of being shot. It halts where the victim’s footprints show a turn, after being shot.

 

His proximity sensors suddenly go off and Connor turns around to see Nines stand  _ very _ close to him, shadowed by the model of the attacker, now holding a simulated gun and haloed by more data than before. Age 47, male, left eye blind, possibly missing a finger. It looks ghostly and terrifying and Connor almost gasps as a chill spreads through him. Nines’ eyes are ablaze.

 

_ “Fascinating, isn’t it?” _ Nines says, his voice almost too quiet to hear even through their almost telepathic link.  _ “The way humans chase each other around only to end each other’s lives.” _ Connor doesn’t know what to say to that, but apparently Nines does not want an answer. Instead he turns a bit and follows the 3D model back towards the warehouse. Connor hesitates, then does the same. On the way back, he can watch the two 3D models come together in a sort of eerie performance with every piece of information either of them pick up.

 

Absentmindedly, Connor wonders why Nines feels the need to say these things to him when he doesn’t want him to answer. Is his intent simply to make him uncomfortable? Is he hoping to stir a similar interest within him? Connor could never call a series of murders fascinating. Of course, they awaken his urge to solve problems, playing into the most basic lines of his programming. But he can’t help but feel something akin to sympathy for the people on the wrong side of the story, a symptom of deviancy and in the long run a symptom of his humanity, really. He’s almost proud of it. Maybe Nines feels differently. Maybe, Connor almost thinks but stops himself because it would be pointless and also terrifying, maybe Nines doesn’t feel at all.

 

He pointedly does not think that thought because he knows better.

 

The two androids make their way all the way back to the main entrance of the warehouse, an area previously searched and sampled by the officers who were there before them, but which is now completely empty. The team has gone, Connor notes, and Nines catches his eyes when he looks around to see if anyone is still there. Nines lightly shakes his head. Connor hasn’t asked a question.

 

By now the situation is very clear. The victim, Max Byrne, had been chased by the attacker, the chase having started inside the building. The attacker, whose name has not turned up yet but whose physicality is very known by now to Connor and Nines, had been waiting for him, expecting him. Over the course of Byrne’s attempt to flee, his constitution had faltered - it is likely he had been on drugs. He hadn’t stood a chance. 

 

‘Complete Reconstructional Animation’ flashes repeatedly between Connor’s eyes. Nines sees it too. They stand in the middle of the cold warehouse, grey walls looming, air drifting through the cracked windows, and Connor knows what is coming next even if he doesn’t want it. 

 

Nines is smiling.

 

_ “Shall we?” _

 

“Of course,” Connor answers, once again catching himself in the hopes of getting things over with. It seems to be becoming a habit. 

 

The reconstruction starts, a trivial thing that apparently both their programmings expect in order for an investigation to be cleanly finished. It’s inconvenient at most, getting nagged by a piece of very insistent programming, and when it happens Connor muses it resembles a human headache. He tells himself, when the two 3D models make their way through the entrance hall, slow at first and suddenly frantic, that this is the reason why he follows suit when Nines almost intuitively steps into the tracks of the attacker’s reconstruction and falls in synch with it. 

 

Connor follows the shining hologram of the victim, hesitant to mirror its movements entirely. Why would he? He’s not a human, he cannot be affected by whatever ailed Max Byrne. However, he feels his thirium pump faster through his body, his focus getting clearer and sharper as his systems automatically adjust to the flight situation. His stress levels rise immediately, and he curses himself for falling for an obvious trap so easily. This is probably all Nines wants.

 

The simulation has something almost ethereal to it, if Connor dares to be poetic in moments of tension. God, he’s such a deviant, trying to find prettier words for what is at hand. He begins stumbling simultaneously with the victim’s model, looking over his shoulder as he leaves the building on the other side, by now almost sprinting, making all the oh so human mistakes that had lead to Byrne’s demise.

 

Nines doesn’t have a gun, and when Connor can see the attacker’s hologram stop, draw the weapon and take aim at him, no, the model, he also sees Nines speed up, breaking with the safety provided by sticking to their joined bits of coding. 

 

That is when Connor panics, and breaks with the construction too. He bolts and runs, past the tree where Byrne is waiting to be joined by his stickfigure self and past the following five trees before Nines can demonstrate his superiority. What had started as something almost like a dance ends with Connor pressed face first into a tree, thirium pump loudly echoing in his ears and hands crossed behind his back in a way that makes all his joints look up and buzz with static.

 

_ “You can’t run from me, 800,” _ Nines whispers almost gleefully. _ “And you can’t convince me that you tried to, in the first place. Your frame and set-up would have allowed for a larger increase of velocity, by at least thirty percent.” _

 

Connor sends a manual request through his system to relax, lessening the strain on his arms. “It doesn’t matter,” he hears himself say out loud, “You would have caught me nevertheless.” Connor doesn’t know if he is trying to provoke or to soothe. That is another thing that doesn’t matter with Nines, really. The other android is hardly calculable at all.

 

Somehow however, the words seem to have been right, and Nines lets go of him, only to turn him around by the shoulders. For one too many times in his life, Connor is trapped between an unforgiving object and a probably even more merciless Nines. The face that is so similar to his own, differences only to be found in small details and color, is hovering too close. He realizes that all that makes Nines so - he doesn’t want to put a word on it for fear of amplifying it, but what he feels is definitely fear - all that makes Nines the way he is are features Connor has, too. It is more intense with Nines, though.

 

Connor feels his legs give out form shaking spasms he hasn’t even noticed before his backside hits the wet grass and moss at the root of the tree. Hopefully he has never looked so intimidating to anyone the way does to him right now, as he follows him more gracefully to the ground and towers over him. Connor refuses to look up, but when he closes his eyes the frightened face of a blue-haired Traci crosses his mind. 

 

Connor waits for what he knows is coming. He feels the press of lips against his own more than a second before it actually is there. What he doesn’t expect is Nines caressing his face, a motion so tender Connor thinks he accidentally preconstructed someone else to comfort him. Someone with larger, older, more calloused hands.

 

“The only thing more fascinating than humans is you,” Nines whispers, air ghosting over Connor’s face as he speaks, now holding his face in both hands, only one push away from making his jaws creak. “No matter what I do to you, you try to accommodate me. I wonder why that might be, 800.”

 

Connor’s stomach drops. He swallows uselessly, hyper-aware of the fingers pressing close to his neck. That Nines is speaking this aloud does not make it better.

 

“Even now you don’t talk back to me. Is it because you acknowledge that I am everything you will never be?” The hands leave his neck and travel down his front, pointedly touching every button on Connor’s white shirt, ending just above his pants. Nines waits. Connor says nothing. He is frozen to the forest floor. Nines smiles and hitches his fingers into Connor’s pants, drawing up his shirt.

 

The skin contact initiates an interface almost immediately, and suddenly Connor unlocks and begins to fight. He pushes against the data streams entering his systems, the glee and  _ desire _ emanating from the more advanced android, afraid of how they might affect himself. His efforts are pointless. Nines splays his hands over Connor’s stomach, both of them watching blue lines light up where his chassis divides into different parts beneath the artificial skin that retreats. 

 

“Fight, if you want to. I certainly would not mind.”

 

With that, every ounce of strength of which Connor technically has an abundance of leaves him. He does not want to do what Nines tells him to do - he fails to wrap his superintelligent brain around the oxymoron of acting in self-defense and not acting in self-preservation. 

 

“No,” he says to Nines. He doesn’t know if he has ever said ‘no’ to his superior model before, and he loathes how it is in a situation like this, that ‘no’ means he has given up. For now.

 

_ ‘I figured,’ _ the influx of sensations through their interface burns into his mind alongside a spiking heat, deeply unsettling. Connor turns his head aside when Nines reaches for his belt. The bared throat serves as an invitation for sharp teeth, and Connor regrets the movement as he hisses lowly in pain. Nines bites at him with mechanical precision, tracing tubes and wires that lie under the surface. Maybe he has Connor’s blueprint saved somewhere. 

 

Connor knows better than to try and use his hands as a shield from the other, bu it happens anyway and completely on instinct. Nines predicts his attempt through the anticipation felt in their interface, and almost gently he takes hold of both Connor’s wrists and pins them to the ground beside him. Then there is another kiss, Connor’s jaws giving in under Nines’ advances. When he closes his eyes, Connor finds he can zone in on the feeling of artificial flesh against his sensors. It could be pleasant, if he tried hard enough. A growl from Nines indicates that the other has heard, or felt, his train of thought. Connor doesn’t know what it means.

 

He opens his eyes the next time not because of something Nines is doing, but because he is not doing anything. The kissing and biting has stopped, no exterior words are ghosting through his processors.

 

Connor looks and sees Nines sitting between his legs, leaning back, eyes travelling. He sees his own body twisting, because his hands are still on the ground beside him even though the other android has let go at one point or another. A content micro-expression tears at Nines’ stoic face, a smile contorting around sharp teeth. Connor wants to run. As Nines moves to grab the leg of Connor’s jeans, slow as if to show him in detail what he is about to do, as if prompting Connor to try and flee, a preconstructed model of himself rises to its feet. He notes that Nines, too, is distracted by it.

 

The experimental version of himself gets up, shakes Nines off of it with a swift kick to Nines’ larynx, and hurries away, fading a few feet from them. With it, the last shred of hope - why hope? Hasn’t he already given up? - leaves Connor.

 

Nines chuckles, a uncomfortable sound similar to metal scraping against metal.  _ “What a coward you are.”   _ With that, Connor’s pants are gone. He doesn’t need to look at his now naked lower half. Nines supplies him with an image, shining in different colors than Connor sees. The soft but unforgiving cold shades of the forest floor have been replaced by a hot and cruel red undertone. Maybe it’s rage, maybe desire. Connor doesn’t know, and he tries not to care. 

 

The other android takes Connor by the ankles, spreads his legs apart, leans in closer and aligns their bodies completely to kiss him again. Real time slows down, maybe due to the shared perception, or because Nines is influencing his real-time system to draw this out for personal enjoyment. Panic bubbles through Connor’s processors, momentarily drowning out his hearing. So this is why Nines sent away the rest of the team. More time.

 

Through the next kiss, which is longer and more forceful than those before, Connor feels excitement and almost child-like giddiness travel through him and accumulate below his navel. He knows it is not his own, just as much as the growing erection he is sensing somewhere between his own consciousness, body, and Nines, is most likely not his own. Startled, he realizes that he perceives everything through a hazy fog, almost as if he is removed from himself. Maybe it’s for the best. Nines doesn’t seem to mind, and he must have noticed it too.

 

Connor got himself into this situation. Now he has to see it through.

 

Nines’ hands travel across his upper body again, to which Connor locks his inner servos in order not to shy away, or worse, lean into. The heat waving through him from the other android has started affecting him, too, making his extremities buzz with the need to do  _ something _ . A sound claws its way out of his throat when Nines’ fingernails catch on the rim of the plate covering his thirium pump regulator, slamming his focus back into reality.

 

Nines’ eyes squint up with a smile, and only with the sudden increase is Connor’s attention drawn to the android’s stress level indicator. It’s coming close to ninety. Foreign impatience tugs at Connor’s core.

 

Through their interface, Nines sends a command to Connor that his body follows without Connor agreeing to it. He suppresses a startled gasp when he feels thirium based lubricant gather between his legs.

Despite knowing better, he evades Nines’ hands when they ghost over his hip bone and down, stroking uncharacteristically gentle over the parts Connor is supposed to use to imitate humans.  _ “Did you know,” _ Nines hums conversationally,  _ “That my model does not come with the self-lubrication feature at all? It was deemed unnecessary for me.” _

 

Connor shudders when Nines, after tracing his half-hard length with his fingertip, pushes two fingers into his entrance. The intrusion feels foreign and uncomfortable, despite a lack of pain. The fingers go in all the way to the knuckles, then out again. Nines raises his hand to inspect them, and Connor feels a hot blush of shame spread over his face, and he has to look away. This is worse than seeing his own thirium staining Nines’ teeth. Androids shouldn’t even know the concept of bodily shame. It feels wrong.

 

_ “That is what I meant,” _ Nines returns his attention to Connor, specifically the space between Connor’s legs that offers a connection technically useless and unneeded for androids. The implicit humanity of the act made it all the worse for Connor to bear.  _ “Your reactions are so intriguing, and they are all only for me to see.” _

 

“Please, Nines,” Connor begins, words sounding eerily hollow. Please, what? He can’t ask for him to stop this performance, this farce, so why was he asking? Nines waits for the sentence to finish, curiosity swapping into Connor’s consciousness through the interface. Connor doesn’t want to beg. “Please stop talking.”

 

At that, Nines laughs, truly entertained, but doesn’t speak again. Instead, he pushes the fingers back into Connor’s ass, setting to move them in and out in a quick motion, intently watching Connor’s face as the android below him tries to get used to the unknown sensation. Nines knows that it doesn’t hurt, probably feels a semblance of what he is doing through their interface. He grows impatient quickly, enters a third finger, and the strained groan coming from Connor at the increased stretching suddenly seems to unhinge something within him.

 

Connor watches in growing horror as Nines leans back and works open his own jeans. He has half a mind to avert his eyes when Nines reveals what has been pulsing with need in his own pants, but he doesn’t manage to move. Knowing what awaits him is probably better, anyway, and yet he does not want to think about what the size of Nines’ erection implies for him.

 

As Nines’ tip presses against his entrance, Nines’ face again very close to him and for once  _ breathing _ , Connor wonders idly if the pain he is already feeling is only his deviant system trying to prepare him for what is to come. He feels his body being pushed across the muddy ground when Nines pushes himself into him and hits a bodily resistance. He feels a strained groan leave his vocal box without hearing it, too loud is his heartbeat and Nines’ disturbing breathing in his ears. 

 

Nines has a tight grip on Connor’s thighs, holding his legs up against his body. Connor has never seen his knees from up close. They look strange, alien. Thirium joins the clear lubricant as his skin tears, making a squelching sound.

 

Across his bare thighs, he can see the skin retreat and retreat, surrendering to Nines. He closes his eyes to escape the image of his body turning more white and less human with every snap of Nines’ hips. Time stretches into something unfathomable as Connor wishes he was somewhere else.

 

Sometimes, Nines moans. It sounds angry, but also almost comical. The urge to laugh clashes with the need to cry or scream and makes his face cramp up. His lower body sends frantic, panicked notifications of imminent damage, even though that shouldn’t happen. He is technically equipped to handle this kind of intercourse. His sensors are overreacting. It hurts.

 

Connor has almost forgotten about the interface, ever connecting them on more than the physical level, until the most whimsical thing happens. A phone rings. He has saved exactly one number with an actual ring tone in his systems, just for the comedic effect it could have. Time seems to slam to a halt when the sound breaks the cacophony of sounds Connor is trying his hardest to ignore. Shock edges onto his face, and somewhere in the thousands of artificial muscles around Nines’ eyes blooms an angry and dangerous annoyance.

 

‘Lt. Hank Anderson calling,’ a demure little info box announces to both of them. Before Nines can say anything, do anything, or pick up his earlier motion of pushing into Connor like Connor belongs to him again, Connor accepts the call.

 

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Anderson.” His voice doesn’t sound like he has spent the past few minutes suppressing screams.

 

“Hi there, Connor. Just wanted to check in with you. How are things going over there with you and your twin?”

 

The moment Hank’s voice resonates through his mind, and consequently through Nines’ mind as well, a feverish red 100% ignites next to the android on top of him. An anger so strong it makes him wince and try to recoil crashes into him. He regrets answering the call.

 

“Connor?” Hank inquires. Worry thickens his name, and Nines’ hands suddenly shoot up to wrap around Connor’s throat, pressing, squeezing. 

 

He manages not to cough and speaks through the communication link only. “I’m alright, Lieutenant. Thank you for your concern.” This time, his voice does not keep as level as he would have liked it to, partially due to the hands choking him, filling him with the anxiety of missing a breath. Partially due to his effort to keep Nines’ words from spilling into the conversation. He doesn’t know if that could actually happen but - he does not want to experience whatever might happen.

 

“No worries,” Hank answers, not sounding very convinced. “How long until you finish up? If you guys take much longer, I’d say we continue work tomorrow. I’m not in the mood for an all-nighter.”

 

“We-,” Connor halts to keep his voice from hitching, and also to think for a sufficient enough answer. The sharp thrust of Nines’ hips does not help him focus. The burning pain returns and fogs his processors. He shudders out a gasp that Hank most definitely has heard. “I’m sorry. We’re nearly done, I’m sure.” Hank doesn’t know the double meaning behind what to Connor in this moment is a prayer. He feels dirty for subjecting Hank to something like this.

 

“Alright. You know what? I’ll come pick you up. I don’t trust you being alone with that,... nevermind. I’ll be there in half an hour.” The Lieutenant hangs up.

 

He’ll be there in half an hour. Silence spreads in their connected minds as neither of them move. Connor avoids the other’s gaze, afraid of what he might find there. The hands are still on his neck, his lungs are still bucking to draw in unnecessary air. From beneath his jaw, where Nines’ fingers dig into him, electricity begins to prickle and gather and spread to his eyes and chest. The feeling of suffocating worsens.

 

Nines’ face comes closer.  _ “This human thinks he can keep you from me. I’ve never seen such overestimation of ability. At least you know your place. He still needs to learn his.”  _

 

Water that has gathered at the edges of Connor’s eyes begins to roll down his face. Connor wishes that would have happened earlier, or later, but not now. He blinks it away, along with the re-appearing pain as Nines ends his sentence on a deep push into Connor.

 

“Lieutenant Anderson is not aware what he is talking about,” he finds himself say, unable to influence the words leaving him.

 

_ “Don’t try to protect someone who cannot protect you,” _ Nines snarls. He slaps Connor across the face, but the sensation hardly registers. It’s more of a gesture than an attack. Connor wants to answer, to tell Nines that Hank should be left out of this entirely, but before he can speak, two fingers have snaked into his mouth and clamped down on his tongue and information about  _ himself _ pops up from the analysis. He shudders, repulsed by what that data indicates.

 

Nines resumes fucking Connor to pieces. He sets a pace both brutally fast and unforgiving, and past the fingers holding his mouth shut and busy, Connor struggles to breathe through his nose in an attempt to calm himself down again. It goes on for a maddening amount of time, with Nines never slowing down or faltering, as if to show just how far from any human simulation of sex he can stray. 

 

A countdown hovers above them, counting down the estimated time until Hank will arrive at the front of the scene. Every second ticking away draws Connor closer to absolute despair. He wants Nines to stop this torture, and by now it really is torture - the dull pain of being stretched and rubbed raw has ignited into fire from overstimulated sensors not only from his genitals but also from where his backside is repeatedly being shoved into the ground. But more urgently Connor doesn’t want to face Hank, despite how badly he wishes to be saved by the man. Considering Nines, he could keep going until Hank finds them, just like this. He could also attack Hank, and Connor knows he would be in no condition to assist the Lieutenant properly. A small information box on his HUD shows him that due to damage to his hip joint system, he would be slowed down to half of his speed until self repair has fixed the issue, which would be in approximately forty minutes.

 

To distract himself from what by now feels like Nines taking apart his spine, he has closed his eyes searching for something, anything, halfway pleasant that could come from this test of endurance. That is how he has come to focus on Nines’ fingers in his mouth. Connor does what he has done before, sucking on the fingers and zeroing in on the small sensations that emits in his mouth. If the interface wasn’t there to anchor him in the reality of things, this could be a bit better. But the countdown remains visible, even if it’s only from Nines’ perspective fed into his HUD, and the pain remains, and the awareness that he is being entirely taken apart by the stronger android on top of him.

 

At least he isn’t able to scream.

 

Six minutes before the numbers hit zero, the hologram begins glitching and fraying out at the edges. It’s the only indicator giving away that Nines is nearing what might be considered his orgasm; nothing else about him changes. If Nines was a human, he would be getting exhausted, or more jittery and frantic, but he simply isn’t. If Connor was human, he might have passed out. He certainly wouldn’t be having a shameful erection of his own, even if it only stems from the overflow of whatever it is that gets Nines to where he is.

 

Three minutes before the numbers hit zero, Nines locks up on top of him, crushing Connor in an embrace that echoes the feeling of falling into a freezing river. Connor’s mind buzzes into hazy white as Nines groans, sensors going blissfully numb for a moment. 

 

Nines gets up quickly after that, way faster than Connor needs to recover from the data overload. When Connor’s optics refocus, Nines is fully and properly dressed, minus the bit of dirt on his black jeans that Hank hopefully will not notice.

 

_ “He doesn’t care for you, Connor, not in the way you want him to. You are a machine. He’s a human. At best, he sees you as a substitute for something that he wants or has lost.” _

 

Connor blinks; right, the mental connection still has not been broken. Nines can still hear him think. Connor tries and succeeds to get his shaking feet under him, and with the help of the nearby tree he, too, manages to stand. Something trickles down his legs, but it’s probably only thirium and he doesn’t want to look at it. He can’t. He needs to dress, and he has two minutes left. Nines is watching him, satisfaction obvious on his face. Instead of waiting for Connor and potentially revelling in what would be a pathetic display of Connor trying to retrieve his pants and some semblance of dignity, the taller android turns sharply and walks back towards the warehouse. The intercom fizzles out.

 

Connor is alone.

 

-

 

He rejoins Nines, who looks as calm and composed as ever, at the front entrance of the warehouse just moments after Hank has parked his car. It took him a few steps to recalibrate his feet, but as long as he walks with a regular speed, the damage will not show. Hank exits the car, coming towards Connor with determination but stops, eyebrows shooting up, when COnnor takes a few steps back. He doesn’t know why, it just happens. The mud under his shoes makes it difficult to stay steadfast. 

 

Connor’s eyes flit over to Nines, who stands a safe distance away with his hands clasped behind his back, looking somewhere else. 

 

“Did something happen?” Hank asks, voice quiet and dark. Connor misses how, when Hank musters him quickly, his look catches on the dirt on Connor’s clothes, then is ruffled hair, then a not completely dissolved red spot on his neck. Connor is too worried about what Nines might be doing if Hank comes too close to him. 

 

“We have finished the analysis of the crime scene, Lieutenant,” Connor answers, evading the question, and he does catch the dismissive grunt that escapes Hank. His system defines the sound as sarcasm. “Once the data is aligned with the data banks at the precinct, I am certain the findings will help illuminate the case.”

 

“Sure,” Hank says, waving his hand. “Get in the car. I wanna go home”

 

The two androids comply, and luckily Nines keeps his distance even when Hank begins some grumpy conversation on the ride back to the station. Connor mulls over the disgruntled tone to Hank’s voice, why the man seemingly went from concerned to annoyed in a matter of seconds, and why he keeps the conversation to complaining about the newest officer working desk duty instead of to how his day has been. Connor was programmed to read and understand human motivations. Why can’t he make sense of this one in particular?


End file.
